The Twitter Novel Project

E/B:H -- Chapter Four

2012-01-30T23:22:00.000-08:00

The car could drive itself, of course. But in case some Coal Creek APCs popped up, I wanted a human on the wheel. Andrevich had grown up in an area with old cars kept running mostly with prayer, so he was quite a good driver. Unlike me, that is. I'd never bothered to learn, and the Networks had arranged for transport all my adult life.

We found the Tidal Motel pretty easy. Calling it a shithole would be insulting to legitimate shitholes -- this place had to be a hundred years old, and looked like it. The white and teal paint was fading, cracked, and gone altogether in some areas, exposing the bare, rotten wood underneath. Ugly.

I checked with the thin, greasy guy behind the bulletproof glass in a shed at the top of the parking lot with an "Office" sign. I asked for the Global News backup crew -- he stared at me blankly for a long moment.

"You must mean Jeb," he finally drawled. "Boy always told me he was a freelance Network guy. Never did believe him. Hey, you're that dude from the news program, ain't you?"

"Dane Phoenix," I said, shooting him the old charming smile. "Where can I find -- Jeb, you said?"

"Hey! Hey, Helen!" he yelled. "Come on out here, woman! You gotta see who's at the window!"

I shook hands and signed autographs for The Thing Called Helen. She was the manager's wife, and she was 250 if she was a pound. Finally, though, we got a room number out of The Power Couple -- 407.

You'd expect room number 407 to be on the fourth floor, right? I know I did, and the Tidal Motel did, indeed, have four levels. Andrevich and I would have climbed the rickety staircase all the way up, had he not noticed room 401 from the second-floor landing.

"That... Well, that makes no kind of sense," I said, heading down the dark hallway. Room 407 was between 406 and 409. Of course. I was starting to think this entire hotel was designed as an elaborate, unfunny practical joke.

I knocked on the door. Nothing. Andrevich then pounded on the door, and he's much stronger than I am, so that got an immediate response. We heard shuffling, cursing. A few seconds later, the door opened, and I was sure we had the wrong room.

The guy in 407 looked like a full-on train wreck. He was younger than me -- maybe 28 -- but in much worse shape. He looked like he hadn't slept or showered in at least four days. His brown hair was longish, greasy, and plastered to his skull with what I hope was just sweat. He wore an old bathrobe, no shoes. Just as I was about to ask if we had the right guy, he looked me in the eyes and smiled. He still had all of his teeth, at least.

"Mr. Phoenix," he said. "Pleasure to meet you. Sorry for my appearance -- wasn't really expecting anyone to come by today."

The guy looked like shit, sure. But when he spoke -- I don't know. He came across as intelligent. Not like how he looked at all.

"You weren't told to be on standby?" I asked. I was feeling more than a little odd standing outside in the hallway.

"Oh, sure. But you gotta understand, Chief, being told to be on standby ain't shit. 99 times out of 100, that means sit back and collect pay. Last time I actually had to do standby work was... well, back when you were still fighting, big guy," Jeb said, nodding to Andrevich.

"Well, we need you now. How soon can you have your equipment ready?"

"Give me a few minutes to get cleaned up. Like, fifteen. I'll meet you over at the cafe across the street, yeah?"

I was just grateful to be out of the hall and away from the Tidal Motel. The Surf Shack Cafe wasn't much better -- definitely wasn't cleaner -- but at least I didn't feel like the building was collapsing. Andrevich and I took a table in the back, and I ordered the only thing on the menu I was pretty sure wouldn't kill me, black coffee. I never considered coffee a monumental request, but it still hadn't arrived when Jeb strolled into the cafe fifteen minutes later.

He was cleaned up considerably now, wearing jeans and a shiny, synthetic button-up shirt. He had a black bag over one shoulder. As soon as he sat down at the table, three mugs of coffee suddenly appeared.

"You gotta understand, they like locals," he said. "You and your buddy are making them nervous."

"Because of who we are?" Andrevich asked.

"What, celebrities? Nah, man," he said. "I doubt the folks who run this place have watched a network feed in 30 years. They don't like outsiders, is all."

He wasn't joking. The entire time we were in the cafe -- 20 minutes or so -- the guy behind the counter never stopped staring. It was more than a little creepy.

As we talked about the job, I noticed a few things about Jeb, the redneck one-man backup crew. First, he wasn't really a hick or a local, just tried to pass as a bit of both. I detected a hint of an accent whenever he spoke. South Africa? Accents tend to get a bit muddled these days. Everyone sounds like they're from Omaha or Kansas City or something. You'd never really guess I grew up in Holland unless I told you -- I sound like I grew up in a cornfield, like everyone else does.

Another thing I noticed about our new crew member -- he *really* wasn't a Network guy. Not a bit. At heart, he was a total ICP. Or at least he would have been, if the corporation-backed Networks hadn't wiped out the Independent Content Producers years ago. Before Jeb was even born.

It had come down to money, and the Networks realizing that while they had more of it, they wouldn't for long. So they'd thrown what they had at lobbyists in dozens of countries, and essentially made broadcasting non-Network content a felony. The US government got the Federal Entertainment Commission out of the deal, a steady flow of license revenue right to the Treasury. License fees were too high for independents to afford, so competition from the smaller guys died off extremely quickly. All history.

Of course Jeb would be an ICP. They were still around, they were just way underground and had tiny audiences. Freelance work? That was the perfect cover to have high-def cameras and a transmitter around your crappy hotel room if the Federal cops came calling.

But one thing about ICPs -- at least, from the few underground broadcasts I'd seen, they were competent and good under fire. I'd seen one of them report on a riot outside Umbra's Kyoto office years back, and I have to admit, the camera work was outstanding. So I knew Jeb would have the equipment and skills to get my transmission to the Network servers in Dallas, and that was all I needed.

I tasked Jeb with finding a place to shoot incognito, where Umbra's thugs wouldn't come looking, but that didn't look like shit. He said he'd work on it and call when he had a spot -- we'd meet there at first light.

I called Ryan in Dallas and woke him up. He was pissed off at first, but when I told him that breaking this story would really fuck Umbra over a barrel, he brightened up. Probably helped that I'd done the story the Network wanted me to do, and this one didn't mean I wouldn't cover Andrevich's award. This story was in the A.M., the ceremony was in the P.M.

Of course -- and this bit you know -- I never made it to the ceremony. The ceremony didn't actually happen. I'm not sure they cancelled it, but I am sure that no one showed up -- the reason being obvious.

As we really didn't have anywhere else to go, and the neighborhood was low-rent enough Umbra wouldn't drop by, we stayed put. Jeb, of course, left to do his prep work, but just him coming by to talk to us seemed to give Andrevich and I enough cred to order. Not that the waiter was happy about it, but he did let us put in an order for breakfast, and eventually even brought us the food. After that, we drank a metric fuckton of coffee and waited around for Jeb to call us. The coffee was, surprisingly, pretty damn good.

According to my screen, sunrise was scheduled for 6:18 a.m. At 6:10, my phone chimed in my ear, and I took the call. It was Jeb. He gave us an address, which I scrawled down on a napkin and gave to Andrevich -- I still wanted him on the wheel. Paranoia, I guess.

The big New Soviet was being an amazingly good sport about all of this, and I was thankful. I'd seen what happened when he got angry. He'd put quite a hurt on those Coal Creek bastards, and I wasn't in any real hurry to find out what that beat-down had felt like. But looking at him now, across the table as we paid the ridiculously low breakfast check, he looked calm, happy, -- amused, even.

As you know from the broadcast, Jeb picked a shopping mall that was just opening for breakfast. I thought it was a stupid choice. At first, anyway.

"You mentioned you had some Umbra PMC problems, right?" Jeb said, catching the look on my face when I arrived.

"Yeah."

"Trust me, this is what you want. Plenty of people milling around. Makes for good shot composition, but it's also --"

"Safer," I said, catching on. "Coal Creek is less likely to try something to stop us in a crowded, public area like this."

So Jeb set up the shot, and I have to admit it looked pretty good -- even as those... things... started falling from the skies.

You remember how it went from the original broadcast. I'd already dropped the bombshell -- that something huge was up there. I'd shown the pictures from the lab, told everyone I was pretty sure it was an alien spaceship. Yeah, sure, I didn't know that yet. Fuck it, I'm a reporter. You want facts, go to a damn schoolteacher. Speculation is part of my job, has been since I can remember.

Anyway, I was just about to talk about where it would likely make planetfall -- China or Japan's airspace. That wasn't my idea. The little scientist, Jeff -- he'd done the math on that one. As we found out seconds later, he was close. Well, kind of close.

Thinking back on it now, I might have it figured out. They must have seen my network feed -- and I do mean *them*. Up there. I don't claim to know anything about how they think, but I'd wager they saw their ship on the feed and traced it right back to me. That makes sense, because a few seconds later was when the first shell hit.

Here's a little confession from me to all of you. When the hit came, I didn't connect the dots right away. Taiwan had been making angry noises of late -- my first thought was of them. Hawaii was well within their conventional missile range -- you know, the big systems we'd sold them during the China War? Yeah. Seems dumb now, but I was sure they'd decided to go Pearl Harbor on our collective asses. When that mall crumbled, I hit the ground.

'Course, they weren't missiles at all. They were pods. Carriers of some indeterminate material, strong enough to laugh at heat. Pressure. Impact. Any of those niggling little problems of being shot into our atmosphere.

The network feed cut out right then. It wasn't interference, as many have since speculated -- no, Jed plowed into his setup when he dove for cover. Smashed it right up. So you didn't see the size of the projectile that had just leveled a shopping mall. You might have seen one in your town that day. If you didn't, let me fill you in -- it was only about a foot around, a perfect sphere. And it wasn't a weapon. It was a transport.

Of course, I wouldn't have seen the pod to describe it to you, had I not still been hanging out with Vladimir Piotr Andrevich. Remember, the thing was buried in what was left of the front quarter of a shopping mall -- one that had certainly had people in it. Most of them were probably dead, but there was at least one guy still breathing. And shouting for help, as the situation turned out.

As soon as he heard the man yelling, Andrevich was on it like Action Man. Jeb was right behind him, sprinting over piles of junk. I would have been more than happy to stay where I was, in a tiny ball on the pavement, but Andrevich yelled at me to help them out. I dragged myself to my feet and joined them, helped them pull what was left of a coffee bar off some poor 18-year-old surfer kid.

He was pretty banged up, and we were helping him away from the wreckage when I saw it. I didn't know what it was at first, of course. I figured it must have just been some piece of crap for sale in the mall -- people will buy anything. But it pulsed, a bright flash. And just after the light from that first pulse faded, the thing opened neatly at the center of the sphere, the top half falling away.

Nothing happened for a second after it opened. Then, as I watched, those... *things* started slithering madly out of the ball. The best I can think to call them was worms, though that's not exactly accurate. They were each a couple, maybe three inches long. They were black, so they stood out against the white remains of the coffee bar. There seemed to be hundreds, and they were fast.

Andrevich saw them at the same time I did; neither of us said anything. He just grabbed the kid as if he weighed nothing, not 150 pounds. He chucked the surfer kid over his shoulder and was off like a sprinter, me and Jeb on his heels.

"What the fuck are those?"

I think it was Jeb who yelled that, though I'm not sure. Could have been anyone -- I was just focused on getting my ass out of there. I chanced a look over my shoulder as I ran for the street, and immediately wished I hadn't.

The worms went after the weak first. The poor fucks stuck in the wreckage couldn't get away, couldn't run. The worms didn't swarm -- a single worm picked each target. One second, they'd latched onto a poor, helpless person -- the next, that unfortunate motherfucker was twitching and bleeding out. I wasn't sure if it was because the initial targets were already injured, but it only took each of them couple of seconds to die.

We were moving fast -- adrenaline -- but the worms were already swarming out from the wreckage, and they were a fuckton faster. I tried to think of some way to escape -- maybe get into the car and lock the doors, slam on the power and get the fuck out of there.

Even as I had the thought, I saw it wasn't going to work. A car near ours had its windows up, doors locked, and it didn't matter. Worms had gotten inside somehow anyway, and the two occupants of the car were spraying blood all over the inside of the vehicle.

"Keep running!" I yelled, though that was probably unnecessary. Andrevich and Jeb were ahead of me, and weren't slowing down. Even with the 150-pound teenager on his shoulder, Andrevich was really eating up the distance, and Jeb was keeping right up with him. I was the slow one, the liability -- and it looked like I was going to be the one bitten and killed by those... whatever they were.

The thought didn't make me stop running, though. If anything, it gave me a burst of power like I'd never felt, not even on speed. I was almost about to catch up with Jeb when it happened.

Helicopters went silent before they became obsolete a few decades ago. I think it was a People's Liberation Army design from the China War, but after that, the rest of the world's militaries got them. I had seen them float over my granddad's house as a kid -- Dutch Army training flights, I think. They were fast, sleek, and silent. One of those helicopters -- a massive cargo model -- dropped down right in front of Andrevich and Jeb, and the side doors flew open. I could see Jeremy and Mischa inside, waving us toward them. The helicopter didn't land, just hovered a few feet off the pavement. I poured on the last bit of speed I had, then jumped. I felt hard, metal deck slam into my chest, felt hands grab me and pull me in.

In less than a second, we were climbing, the chaos below us getting smaller by the second. I pulled myself into a sitting position. As I looked around, I could see Andrevich, the kid, Jeb. The rest of our crew was there -- it was the chopper they'd used earlier. The one I had felt bad for saddling them with rather than springing for hoppers for all of them. Turned out that saved our asses.

"We're heading to Honolulu Airport," Jeremy said as he and Mischa slid the door closed. I looked up -- Meg was flying the chopper.

"Where did you learn to fly one of these things?" I shouted up to her.

"Israeli Army," she yelled back, throwing me a grin.

"It was in her file, if you'd bothered to read it," Jeremy said.

Ah, same old Jeremy. Always the producer. I smiled a little.

"What's at the airport?"

"Flight for all of us to Dallas. We'll figure this shit out there," Jeremy told me.

"Andrevich? Jeb? You good with that?" I asked.

"I'll go along for the ride. And our young friend here is unconscious," Andrevich told me.

"Should we take him to a hospital or something?" Jeb asked.

"Entire island's chaos," Reg said. "Better chance of that in Dallas."

We did make it to Dallas, eventually. But not right away.

When we landed at the airport, the Marines were waiting for us.

E/B:H -- Chapter Three

2012-01-15T00:18:00.000-08:00

OK, I thought I knew how to drink, but that New Soviet fucking took me to drinking school and left me there. I assumed we'd get hammered -- at least a bit -- but I didn't expect to wake up in the fountain in the hotel lobby.

So, yeah. We drank quite a bit that night, and there's a certain point where I stop remembering what actually happened, but my plan worked. I remember that much, because it worked pretty early on in the evening. So I should have quit while I was ahead, but...

Anyway. Andrevich. He was smaller than I thought he would be. I mean, dude was massive, but he was shorter than me. I didn't see that coming. Still, for a guy nearing 50, he was in outstanding shape. He almost crushed my hand when he shook it, and I noticed he was sweating. Like, a lot.

"The heat," he apologized, waving one of his hands around to indicate... well, everything, I guess. "Not used to it. Where I'm from, it's much colder."

I just nodded. It was July in Honolulu -- of course that wouldn't be comfortable to Andrevich. Not with him being from Siberia, and all.

He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and shorts -- likely to combat the oppressive heat. I could see his fight tattoos glowing blue on his arms, legs, and neck. He wasn't sick or injured, then. That meant I'd lost a bet. A colleague and I at Global had once figured he'd quit the fight game not because he'd killed that other guy, but because he was ill. Couldn't fight anymore. When I met him, though, I knew that wasn't the case. He looked like he could tear me in half with one hand.

"I just wanted to say, it's an honor to meet you, Comrade Vladimir. I've been a fan since I was a little kid," I said, smiling. The smile was an attempt to hide a wince at the crazy handshake, but thankfully, he let go of my hand.

"I, too, am a fan of yours. Your report on the Atlantic Rail scandal was fascinating," Andrevich told me. "Well, shall we get something to drink?"

I nodded. The bartender could smell the blood in the water, and he was at my elbow when I turned around.

"What'll you have?" I asked. I expected the answer to be vodka.

"Hmm. A Scotch, I think. Laprohaig if you have it."

I ordered a vodka tonic, and it was on. The first drinks only lasted a few seconds -- Andrevich's was gone before he even sat down.

"So, I hear you requested me?" I said.

"Indeed. As I didn't want to come to this thing anyway, I might as well use it as an excuse to meet someone I admire," he said. "I much prefer my retirement, staying at home and writing. I'm working on a book, you know."

I hadn't known that, of course. Books were a tough sell these days, but I was sure he'd do well with it.

"I was thinking about where we could do the interview. I know the heat down here is uncomfortable, and sweating like that won't look good on camera. But I was just up at Manua Kea --"

"The volcano?"

Was it? I thought it was a mountain.

"Yeah. It's much cooler up there. Not as cold as you're used to, but..."

"I like to train in the mountains, in the Urals. Good for the blood," he said, downing another Laprohaig. "And cooler weather...Well, that definitely helps. The interview is tomorrow night?"

I nodded.

"We can go up early, do all the prep work," I said.

Like I said, it didn't take me long to convince him. And then we started talking politics, something he was whip-smart about. In fact, the more we talked, I realized that Andrevich was a smart man. Possibly even a genius, but that could have been the booze.

Anyway, I don't remember much about that night, and I certainly don't remember how I wound up in the fountain. Hangover -- brutal. I didn't dare start up with the speed again, though, as I knew I was headed back up to the insane elevation at the Manua Kea site. My granddaddy's old hangover cure would have to work today -- greasy breakfast, lots of coffee, and mild painkillers. Smart plan. I was feeling quite a bit better when I met Jeremy and crew for the day's planning session. Apparently, granddad knew how to drink.

"OK, folks, let's get this knocked out quickly," Jeremy said to the four people in front of us. Two camera, one sound, I knew. I figured the good-looking 30-year-old woman who looked like she didn't belong around the others was on hair, makeup, and wardrobe.

"We're filming today at the top of Manua Kea, highest spot in the islands," Jeremy said. "I know you were all planning for warmth. That's not going to happen today -- weather says about 28 degrees for the high up there. Might want to find yourselves some coats."

I heard the crew grumbling, all but the wardrobe person. She just nodded, a short, curt little bob of her head. Her element, I guess.

"Good news, though, is that at that elevation, our link to Global will be instant. I plan to do the interview live," I told them. "So you'll have plenty of downtime."

No grumbling at that one, but no mumbled words of praise, either. Tough room, I guess.

Jeremy and I took another hopper up to the Observatory, but the crew was stuck with a helicopter that had to be 60 years old. I wouldn't have been surprised if the thing had seen action in the China War.

Andrevich and his people would also take a hopper. I'd paid for both of them, and you don't even want to know how much two round-trip hoppers ran. I could afford it, and all, but... I don't know. Maybe I could get the Network to reimburse me later.

Meg, the girl in wardrobe, was pretty good. My sizes weren't hard -- I knew she could pull them up on her screen. But even when I've had wardrobe people get the sizes right, they've messed up styles. Not so with this girl --classic-cut black leather jacket, neoprene combat-style shirt, dark gray pants, heavy black boots. Excellent. I'd have to figure out who she was and ask to have her work with me again -- good wardrobe people were tough to find, inexplicably.

Up on the mountain, Andrevich seemed to be comfortable in the below-freezing temperatures. He also seemed to not be hung over. Not in the slightest. That was annoying-- while I was feeling better than I had, I could still feel the damage from the night before.

"Dane!" he boomed, slapping a massive hand on my back. I managed to keep my feet, but I'm not entirely sure how. "How are you?"

"Feeling pretty good," I lied, trying to keep from coughing. That playful slap on the back had acted like a Heimlich maneuver.

What followed next was what you'd expect. Meetings. Those were about as interesting to sit through as they would be to recount. Jeremy and I met with Andrevich's PR person, then with the camera and lighting folks when they arrived. Upshot -- we'd film outside. The observatory had a small garden, and Meg was confident she and the camera guys could make it look good. The PR meeting was fine.Mischa, Andrevich's PR guy, asked that we didn't spend much time on what Vladimir had been doing the last four years. Fair enough. Mischa assured me it was boring anyway, and I didn't doubt it.

Andrevich and I ran through some old fight highlights after lunch. We picked out a few moments to use in the piece -- his first World Championship in 2072, his last title defense in early 2094. Easy. The interview was looking like a walk.

Tim tracked me down between meetings. He was red-faced and out of breath, which I expected. The guy wasn't in what I would call stellar shape, but he was running to catch up with me. Obesity and thin air didn't mix too well. I was surprised he didn't have a heart attack and drop dead at my feet, but he caught his breath back and started talking eventually.

"It's really close now," he panted, finally uncapping a bottle of water and drinking. "Near Mars."

"How soon will it be here?"

"I don't know for sure. Its speed isn't constant. It stopped near Jupiter for several hours. But we finally have measurements. It's bigger than we thought." [P] "How big?" I asked.

"Really fucking big. Surface area is about 270,000 square miles."

Shit. That did sound big, but I had no idea how big that was. Tim apparently saw my confusion.

"About the size of Texas. Little bigger. And it's at least twenty miles high."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Reasonably sure, yeah."

"What does that mean?" I asked. "I mean, what would happen if it hit the Earth?"

"Uh... that would mean no more Earth. Something that big traveling at speed? It would crack the planet in half, if we were lucky."

I thought he must be fucking with me. No way he could sound so calm, right? I mean, not if that was true. But even crimson-faced and panting, he didn't sound like he was in the mortal terror he should've been.

"You don't sound worried," I said.

"It's not going to hit. Neptune, Europa, Jupiter were all in its path. It went around."

"And you think it'll go around us?"

"I really don't think it would avoid all of those other bodies, plus asteroids, and not us. If we go under the theory that it's being intelligently piloted -- which I'm leaning towards -- that wouldn't make any sort of sense."

Of course, as you well know, he was right. The Object didn't hit us. But it didn't pass us by like Tim then theorized it might.

Anyway, the appointed time finally came -- 7 p.m. Central, which was only 3 in the afternoon in Hawaii. We were all set to go. Andrevich and I were sitting across from each other, the view down the mountain in the background. Reg, the lead camera, was set up. At precisely 3, he gave us the signal, and the interview went live.

I said this would be about what you didn't see, and it will. So I won't go into the interview, as you probably saw it -- especially if the ratings I saw later were any indication. It was smooth. Well, except for one small bit, about an hour into the program.

We were discussing the final title defense. I remember that well. My earpiece suddenly went live, and Jeremy was on the other end. It was way out of bounds to call a personality on-air. This was big.

"Dane. Keep talking. We've got a situation out here," Jeremy's voice buzzed in my ear. "Three patrol vehicles just landed outside. Not Honolulu PD or Hawaii State Police. Markings look like Coal Creek."

Coal Creek was a PMC -- a Private Military Contractor. I had no idea what they were doing there, but Jeremy provided updates on their movements throughout the last hour of the interview.

"They've locked off the perimeter. Guns are out, but fingers aren't on triggers."

Then, a bit later: "I just talked to them. The guy in charge says this place is in total lockdown. They're going to let you finish the interview, so keep going."

Finally: "As soon as you're off the air -- three minutes left, by the way-- they're going to escort you and Andrevich inside for questioning."

And, soon enough, they did. Reg signaled me as soon as we were off the network feed, and the doors leading into the garden opened. Six men in black combat suits -- body armor, tactical goggles, tech boots -- poured out of the doors and headed straight for us. In seconds, they had Meg, Reg, and Jackson and Celio (the second camera and sound guys) surrounded and headed back into the building. That left Andrevich and me in the garden with two of the PMCs.

They carried nonlethal weapons -- large-field tasers, foam guns. Federal law stated that only police and federals could carry lethal weapons in the U.S., but I noticed they had some of those, too. They both had pistols, old ones, probably relics from the China War or before. Probably used antique collection laws to carry them.

"You're filming here without permission," one of them, the taller one, finally said.

"We have permission," I said, smiling. "Dr. Timothy Miller --"

"Dr. Miller does not have the authority to authorize anything," tall guy said. "Mr. Andrevich. An honor. I've been a fan of yours for years. I apologize for this, gentlemen, but Umbra Dynamics has ordered the facility closed. Immediately. We will need to detain you for questioning, but we will make it as quick as possible."

*Don't rock the boat.*

I nodded to him.

"I understand," I said. "Can I contact my network? Let them know I'm going to be late?

"In time, after we've questioned you."

They led Andrevich and me to a small room somewhere deep inside the Observatory complex. Tim and another scientist were there, along with Jeremy. This second scientist was as thin as Tim was fat, and I guessed he made the fatal mistake of getting to the food machines after Tim. Without another word, the two PMCs closed us in the room, and I heard the door lock.

"So, Tim, want to tell me what's going on?" I asked, trying to keep the anger out of my voice. I doubt I succeeded.

"I'm not entirely sure," he started. "Umbra sent them. They must have read about the Object in my weekly report. I didn't even know they were paying attention to us up here."

"And me? Do they know I know?" I asked.

Tim shook his head.

"I don't think so. I never mentioned you or Jeremy."

"Anyone want to --" Andrevich started, then trailed off, waving his hand around the room to indicate "all this."

"Oh, sure. Sorry," I said, smiling. I'd have to be very careful about how I told him -- it wouldn't do to have the former Cage Champion of the World ripping my arms off. I suspected he wouldn't be too happy that I'd used his big comeback interview as an excuse to keep an eye on the Object situation.

"My buddy Tim here and his colleague -- sorry, I don't know your name -- have been monitoring something damn interesting," I said.

"Jake Cross," the thin scientist said. I did my best not to shoot him a poisonous look for interrupting me.

"Right," I said. "They picked up an Object coming toward Earth, what... three days ago, Tim?"

Tim nodded. He knew not to interrupt. Good man.

"I see," Andrevich said, nodding. "And my guess is that your superiors wanted you to cover my story more than this one?"

He had it dead to rights, but he didn't seem angry. His voice was calm, measured, as was his expression. I nodded, and he went on. "So you figured you'd talk me into coming up here, keep an eye on the story anyway? Smart. That's why I requested you. You're..."

"Not an idiot?" I guessed.

"So you've met the sports reporter Global wanted to assign to me, then," he said with a laugh.

Andrevich seemed cool, so I turned back to Tim.

"So what's the progress on the... you know..."

"Earthfall in six hours."

Christ. That was much sooner than I expected. I didn't think we were going to be out of there that soon, but I was wrong, apparently. I'm sure the PMCs would have liked to have kept us there all night, but that's not how it worked out for them. We left minutes later.

In the space of two minutes, Andrevich went from jovial, even-tempered, to agitated. I started to get worried, so I asked him.

"Vladimir? You OK?"

"Vladimir Piotr Andrevich does not get locked up," he said, snarling. "Does not like to be told what to do."

He was standing now, pacing the room. I wondered idly if he had claustrophobia.

The room we were in wasn't in any way secure. It wasn't a jail cell, or a holding area-- just a regular-ass room with a regular door. Before I could try to get him to calm down... Before I could even say another word, really, Andrevich was through the door. I mean, he charged himself right the fuck through it. One second he was standing back against the wall -- the next, he rammed through the locked door, turning it into effing kindling.

There were guards just outside the door, and seeing Andrevich tear through them was an insane blur of violent heraldic poetry. There were two of them, one on each side of the door, and before I could make it out of the room, I had to dodge one flying at me. He slammed into the opposite wall hard enough to knock him out, even through his helmet. Then I got into the hall and saw carnage.

The other guard was trying to raise a gun to Andrevich, who was having none of it. A quick, savage right uppercut was all it took. His knuckles connected with the guard's chin, snapping his bulletproof visor and knocking his helmet clean off, chin strap be damned. With his left hand, Andrevich caught the helmet by the broken strap, then swung it in front of him. I hadn't seen the third PMC yet. But Andrevich had. The newly liberated helmet collided with the oncoming PMC's skull, knocking him into a nearby open door.

Madness. In the space of the time it had taken me to get out the door, Andrevich had neutralized three much younger men, and done so easily. Other Coal Creek guys came at us, but it was all a blur. A blur of a pissed-off, older New Soviet, tearing through them like nothing. I lost count of the PMCs he knocked out (or possibly killed) before we made it outside, but it was a lot. He wasn't even sweating.

We fought our way outside -- OK, to be correct, Andrevich fought our way outside. Tim, Jake, Jeremy, and I just followed his wake. The New Soviet left bodies all along the observatory to the spot where our two hoppers were surrounded by the three patrol vehicles. When he finally stopped moving, Andrevich turned to us.

"I think it is time we should leave," he said, his voice a flat monotone.

"What about our crew? Your people?" Jeremy asked.

"Hmm. Suppose I should have thought to leave one of these guys conscious."

"I'm sure they're around here somewhere. We can look --" I said.

"We don't have time," Jeremy said. "The second these guys wake up --"

"They'll drop in on this place in force," Tim said, nodding. "I know this company. That's exactly what they'd do. You need to go. Get this story out."

That was something I knew I could do, especially now. Ryan would have no problem going to air with this one. Umbra Dynamics ran National News Network, Global's only real competitor in the States. A chance to royally fuck Umbra Dynamics? Ryan would be falling all over himself to jump at that one.

"I'll stay behind. Find our people. There's a backup crew in Honolulu. They're at the Tidal Motel. Find them and get this story out there," Jeremy said.

"I'll need data," I said. "Video. Something."

"I can do that," Jake said, bringing his screen online and tapping away. My own screen chirped -- a data transfer was in progress. In a few seconds, I had everything I needed.

"Umbra's soldiers will be looking for you," Andrevich said. "I will come along. Not to be insulting, my friend, but I don't think you could handle them in a fight."

"You're 100% correct," I told him. "Let's go."

I normally hated that the hoppers were on a programmed flight plan, but not that day. The control freak in me took a back seat. Jeremy and the scientists had us in our pressure suits and helmets in a minute flat, and as soon as we were in, the hopper took off. The flight was short, and there was nothing we had to do to make it safely to ground. I expected Coal Creek guys at the landing site.

Nope. Just the same bored local who had been there the day before, and earlier that morning. I wondered if he ever left the area.

"Other hopper?" he asked in a slow, monotone voice.

"Coming down soon," I said.

"K. Gonna have to charge an extra day. Don't have it back by midnight, that is."

"That's fine," I said. "You have my account info on file."

"Yep. Back by midnight."

I nodded and headed for the cars we'd taken from the hotel to the launch site.

"Shit," I mumbled.

"Problem?"

Uh, yeah. There was a problem, and if I already wasn't feeling emasculated by watching this guy knock out several soldiers while I cowered...

"Um... Vladimir... I don't suppose you know how to drive, do you?"

E/B:H -- Chapter Two

2011-12-26T23:55:00.000-08:00

I can't say for certain, of course, that you've never taken a ride in a hopper. But I'm pretty sure you haven't. Not unless you're one of the miners they've been sending to Luna City on the moon lately, or unless you're extremely wealthy. Shit, I'm a network personality, and I make boatloads of cash, and I'd never been on one until that night. They're not inexpensive.

The fact that Jeremy must have paid for it himself -- Network wasn't going to cover it -- made me think he had a serious story. I made a mental note to throw some cash his way when we got back -- I know what he makes, and it's less than a quarter of my salary.

The hopper essentially looked like a big metal ball on three legs. A short, burly local handed us pressure suits. Mine was red. As we suited up, I finally thought to ask the obvious.

"So, where are we going?" I asked, hoping he wouldn't say "the moon." I mean, I trusted the guy, but come *on.*

"Mauna Kea," he said.

I had know idea what those words meant. Something Hawaiian. So at least we weren't leaving the atmosphere.

"And that is?"

"Observatory. Up in the mountains. Used to be a college thing. Funded by corporations now, I think. Anyway, an old buddy of mine works there. Got me the scent of something that..." he trailed off.

I simply nodded. I didn't know much about hoppers, but I knew they were mind-blowingly fast. We'd be back before we were missed. That was the hope, anyway.

I'd never taken a hopper ride before, but I knew the concept. The little ball would shoot up -- fast. Faster than any humans inside would be able to withstand without becoming a permanent part of the vehicle's floor. Exact speed? No clue. But the news report I'd seen on them mentioned that, without the hopper's safety system, occupants would be liquified.

The pressure suits were only a part of the system, and were mainly there to keep the riders... well, clean. We also got helmets. Once the helmets were on, the suits were air- and water-tight. Well, liquid-tight, anyway.

Then came the second safety feature. The entirety of the hopper -- the ball -- filled with a sort of... goo. It was a thick gel that took the shock of the acceleration. The passengers floated in the center of the ball, surrounded by this crud, as the hopper rocketed directly up.

We were alone. There was no pilot on board the hopper -- its course was pre-programmed into its computers. There was, however, an operator of sorts. One guy at the hopper's takeoff point monitored the flight via a link to the hopper's flight computers. In an emergency, he could...

OK, in an emergency, we were probably fucked. The most the operator could do was come up with a convincing story about our deaths. Our flight was too short to make any corrections -- it would be over in less than 30 seconds.

Jeremy and I were lowered into the gel. As we cleared the frame of the sphere's hatch, mechanical clamps grabbed our ankles and pulled us into position at the ball's center. The clamps let go, and I was floating in the center of the sphere. I tried to turn and look at Jeremy, but the clear gel was thick. Moving my head wasn't going to happen without more effort than I wanted to put in, so I did my best to relax my body for the flight.

There was no countdown, no red light turning on inside the sphere to let us know we were taking off. But there didn't need to be. We definitely knew it when it happened. Even with the gel, even with the pressure suits, I felt like I was being curb-stomped. By an elephant. With an overeating disorder.

I know the flight only took 30 seconds -- 28, really -- but it seemed much longer. I could swear I felt the heavy metal boots attached to my pressure suit touching the hard bottom deck of the sphere at one point. Just as the pressure started to get unbearable, though, it stopped in an instant. We had landed without so much as a tiny jolt. We floated in the sphere -- in the center, I noticed, so my boots probably hadn't reached the floor -- for a couple of minutes. I guessed we were there for about three minutes, maybe three and a half -- so 6 or 7 times longer than the actual flight had been.

Finally, the hatch at the top of the sphere slid open, and the clamps grabbed us around the ankles again and pushed us upwards. When we were halfway out of the hatch, Jeremy and I could pull ourselves out onto the ladders on either side. The clamps let go. There was no one outside to meet us, to help us out of our suits. I pulled off my helmet, first twisting to the left, then the right. The first thing I noticed after the seals unlocked and I pulled the helmet off was that it was cold outside. Really cold, actually.

"The fuck, Jeremy. I thought this was Hawaii," I grumbled as Jeremy took off his own helmet.

"It's the altitude," he told me. "More than 14,000 feet. Like, three miles up."

I nodded. That made sense, I guess. I'd been up in the Nevada mountains in summer. That time, I'd been able to see my breath, and I don't think those mountains were anywhere near this high. And I had another thought. "What about air?" I asked.

"Thinner up here. Don't try to run any marathons," he said, pulling off his gloves.

Well, shit. That was bad news. I'd taken another couple doses of speed on the flight over, which meant my heart rate was somewhere north of 130. Higher heart rate meant I needed to pull in more oxygen. It would be very easy for me to pass out up here. I'd have to be careful.

"Turn around so I can get you out of your suit," Jeremy said, holding up his now-ungloved hands.

"Thought you had a pal here. Why isn't he out here helping us?" I grumbled as I turned.

"He's working. This place only has a couple of employees these days. Back when it was government funded, huge staff. Now that it's basically a corporate tax writeoff, it's got a skeleton crew," he said.

And as you'll see in a few minutes, everyone's pretty busy."

Getting us both out of the suits took another ten or fifteen minutes. Upside of that, though, was that all of the goop stayed on the suits, and my clothes were still clean and pressed. Gotta look good. Apart from being a talker, it's one of the main parts of my job.

I checked the screen on my wrist as we headed to the observatory. Despite the darkening sky, the screen was dimming. I didn't remember the last time I'd eaten -- lunch in Dallas hadn't happened. As the screen used my body's electrical impulses for power, the dimness was a bit worrying.

Worrying, too, were my vital signs. My pulse was 138, and my blood pressure was 150 over 95. I was already feeling dizzy, a combination of malnutrition and amphetamines.

"Anything to eat up here? A snack bar or something?" I asked as I trudged after Jeremy through the observatory's front door.

"Shit, that was rude of me. Didn't even ask when you ate last. I was just so on about this story --"

"It's fine. I'm just a bit--"

"No, totally. I understand. I'll try to track you down something. The scientists live up here, so they must have food around."

That was good news. Food would help -- not as much as if I didn't have five doses of speed kicking around my bloodstream, but...

Even inside the observatory, no one came to meet us. Didn't seem to matter, though, as Jeremy seemed to know where he was going. Our route took us through what looked like a small kitchen. Though all of the lights were off, we could see a food machine blinking. I hated the food from these machines -- soy and tofu mechanically formed into foodlike shapes, sprayed with taste chemicals. Yech. But if I wanted to stay vertical, I couldn't afford to be picky.

I chose the least evil-looking option -- braised "beef" and rice. The food machine was old -- it rattled and bubbled -- but it produced a small, trapezoidal container with Chinese characters on it. There were some chopsticks and plastic forks in a small bin next to the machine. I learned to eat with chopsticks when I was two. I tried the faux-Chinese faux-food. It was authentically terrible, but I ate it as Jeremy and I continued through the huge complex.I didn't vomit, anyway. I'm counting that as a win.

Finally, we saw another human being. It was after I'd finished my sad "meal." We were walking, of all places, past a men's room. Just after we passed it, the door opened, and a big man in a black coat came out.

When I say big, I don't mean muscular; I mean fat. I couldn't help staring for a second -- you never see overweight people. Not these days. Especially when being trim, with the ubiquity of soy and tofu and the easy availability of metabo-boosters, is easy. Easier than letting yourself get heavy, anyway. I don't even know how one would go about gaining 50 or 60 extra pounds anymore.

"Tim," Jeremy said to the heavy man.

"Jeremy!" Tim said, his pudgy face breaking into a wide grin.

"Hi, I'm --" I started.

"Oh, I know. Watch you on Global all the time," Tim said. I didn't think it was possible, but his grin got wider. A bit scary. The big man looked like he was about to unhinge his jaw and swallow both Jeremy and me.

"Want to show Dane what you showed me?"

"Of course, of course," Tim said, his grin shrinking back to a usual size. He waved a massive hand in the air and started walking. Jeremy and I just followed him.

I was starting to feel a little less shaky, but Tim was walking fast, especially for a fat man. I dropped back a bit -- I figured if I could keep Jeremy and the big scientist in sight, I would be OK, and I was gasping for breath. At least my screen wasn't as dim anymore. That was definitely something.

"It's just through here," Tim called back, turning. He led us into a small room with screens covering three of the walls. The lights were off, but they really didn't need to be on. Even in suspend mode, the screens threw enough light to illuminate the room. Tim rolled up his sleeve and tapped his screen twice. The screens jumped to life, but the room got darker -- we were looking now at black screens with only pinpoints of background light.

"Think your screens are broken, boss," I said, leaning against the doorframe and trying like hell to calm my heart rate.

"No, they're functional. You're looking at a bit of space between Jupiter and Saturn. Lemme just..." Tim mumbled, tapping his screen.

The screen's image shifted, and that's when I first saw it. The... object. I couldn't say what it was, but I wasn't the only one.

"What is it?" I asked.

"I try not to ask those questions," Tim said, magnifying the image. It was massive, whatever it was. The shape was... well, not quite symmetrical, but not asymmetrical, either. I'd say it was roughly squareish, but it had odd angles. Protrusions. Ridges and valleys.

"Asteroid?" I asked.

"They don't think so," Jeremy said.

"We don't want to rush to --"

"Fine. No conclusions. But what do you think it is?" I asked, sighing. Scientists could certainly be fucking frustrating.

"Well, I can tell you what we've observed," Tim started carefully. "It's moving. Fast."

"It was near Neptune yesterday," Tim said.

"That doesn't seem that fast," I said.

"Trust me, it's faster than you think. It's gaining speed," Tim told us. "There's more. It's heading this way."

Well, yeah. I'd guessed that, otherwise they wouldn't have dragged my tired ass all the way up there.

"I can see that doesn't mean much to you. Let me restate -- it's coming for Earth. That means it's changed direction. More than once. It's had to make course corrections to keep headed towards us."

"You mean it's being... flown? Intelligently?" I said, blinking.

"Like I said, we don't like to make those kinds of conclusions..." Tim said, trailing off.

They couldn't make conclusions. But I could. And this was shaping up to be a much, much bigger story than some has-been cage fighter popping up to get a shit award.

* * *

When I got off the phone with Ryan, it would be an understatement to say I was shocked. Dumbstruck would be accurate.

"This is the same bullshit Jeremy told me the day before I sent you," Ryan had said, sighing heavily on the other end of the line. "It sounds just as weak and fictional as when he said it."

"I don't think you understand, Ryan. There are scientists here who --"

"Scientists," Ryan scoffed. "Right. If they were any kind of real scientists, they'd be working for Umbra or The Lungshan."

OK, so pure research under corporate grants didn't hold much weight with my boss. Good to know, I guess.

"They have data, Ryan. Real-time imagery of the object. It could be the first contact with alien life. Don't you think Global News needs to be there first?"

That shut him up for a minute. But only a minute.

"Look, they said this thing is moving pretty slowly, right?" he asked.

"Well, they said it was picking up speed."

"It's still at least two days before we have to worry about it. Do the Andrevich story. "We'll revisit this conversation after that."

Ryan didn't wait for an answer. He just terminated the connection. And I was...

Well, I was furious. There was no doubt of that. But more than anything, I was confused. This was a huge story. Gigantic, in fact. Why couldn't Ryan see that? Why was this Vladimir Andrevich story so important to him, but a potential alien ship was back-burnered?

In any event, there wasn't a whole hell of a lot I could do. Ryan wanted the Andrevich story, and that was what I'd have to give. It's not like I could just do the Object story on my own --Global News would never air it. And I couldn't even go to another Network. If the story was too hard-news for Global, then none of the other Networks would touch it for anything. Not in this country, anyway. Probably not even in Old Blighty, though I'd pretty much burned my bridges with Royal when I left four years ago. I was stuck.

Taking another ride down in the hopper wasn't something I was looking forward to -- it wouldn't be a powered flight, after all. It would more just be a straight gravity-drop until a couple of hundred feet before the landing site. Then, a controlled landing. But there was really no other way to get back to where I was supposed to be, where I guess I *had* to be, now. So we suited up again. A few minutes later, we were back on the ground, almost exactly in the same spot where we'd started. The burly local guy was back. He helped us out of our suits, and Jeremy drove me to the hotel where we would meet Andrevich and his people early in the morning.

"Have they landed yet?" I asked as we rolled down the long, slick highway into the center of Honolulu.

"Hang on. Let me check."

Jeremy let the car's computer take over the driving and tapped a few commands into his screen. After a second, he nodded to me.

"Looks like they landed 20 minutes ago. They should be... well, right behind us on this road," he told me.

"Staying in our hotel?"

"I think so, yes."

A plan was forming. Maybe I'd be able to do the story I wanted to do, after all.

"Kick up the speed. Make sure we get to the hotel before they do," I told Jeremy.

"Why?"

"Because, my friend... I have an idea." I said, grinning.

There's a skillset required for every job. For Andrevich's job, you had to be a big, mean motherfucker who could hit really hard. But there are those of us out there who aren't big, aren't fighters. My job has two requirements --that I look good and talk well. And thanks to those two skills, I've never had to fight anyone in my life.

Growing up, I got myself into plenty of trouble, sure. I don't think you've been a teenager unless you've pissed off most of the people you know. I got close to some fights a few times. But I never had to throw a punch. I could always smile or talk my way out of pretty much everything, which is why I became what I am.

So you'd think there was nothing Andrevich and me would have in common, right? Well, there's one skill in my set that helps. Even when dealing with a guy who could disassemble me without his fight tattoos even changing colors. It's a skill I'm proud of.

See, Andrevich was New Soviet, but New Soviets shared more similarities to their Russian neighbors than either wanted to admit. Apart from the common language and history, both Russians and New Soviets liked to drink. And I could hold a masterclass on drinking. So when I arranged to meet Andrevich in the hotel bar, I knew I had my work cut out for me -- but I knew my plan would work.

E/B:H -- Chapter One

2011-12-12T22:11:00.001-08:00

You know what I've noticed? No matter where you go these days, you got some motherfucker telling you he was there. And it's always a guy, too, telling you that shit.

"You know," he'll say, thinking he's being all smooth and casual and shit. "You know, I'm one of the few people in the world who was actually there. On Day One."

It doesn't matter where you are, either. Could be at work, showing the new guy to a desk where he'll spend his day plugged into the system, doing monkey-easy tasks for years. Could be at a party for your Great-Grandma's 132nd. Someone will do it, even though we all know by now 99% of them are full of shit.

But, of course, you're going to believe me when I tell you that I *was* actually one of the people there on Day One. Why, you ask? Well, I can prove it, unlike everyone else. And most times, I don't even have to break out said proof. People know when they see me. Because while other guys point to a flesh-colored blob in the network feed and claim it was them, all I have to do is smile at you. Sometimes, I even introduce myself.

"Hi," I'll say. "Dane Phoenix, Global News Network."

Not my real name, of course. Phoenix is a stage name, but all the network reporters have them. Dane is what my mother named me, though, so call me that.

So, you know for a fact I was there. Most likely, you first heard about the events of Day One from me, or at least someone like me. I'll tell you the stuff they didn't show you on the network feed, the stuff they only told us in the media/entertainment complex. And I'm telling you that stuff now, because, seriously, what can it hurt at this point?

It doesn't start on Day One, of course. My involvement with the story starts a couple of days before -- Day Minus One, if you like. It was one of those days. Errand days. I had a lot of crap to take care of, not the least of which was re-registering my entertainment license. That meant a trip to Dallas.

I could have been driven there, of course. The Network would have been more than happy to hire me a vehicle and a driver. I mean, they kind of bend over backwards to do stuff for me -- I bring them ratings, after all, so they want to make sure I'm happy. Wouldn't do to have one of their most popular personalities jump ship, though, between you and me, that's something I wouldn't do. Global News is one of the few with any journalistic cred these days, though I could bitch about the pay if I wanted. But nah. Not me. My mother always told me not to rock the boat, and she was right. I was on top right *then*, but that didn't mean it would always be. I tried to be as easy as possible to work with, unlike some of my co-personalities... but I'll get to that later.

Anyway, Dallas. I decided to take the train, mainly because I was still nursing a hangover from the night before and could use the time to sleep. Network personalities always get the private cars on the train, so that meant two hours from my house in L.A. of undisturbed time.

Yeah, I know. No one actually *lives* in Los Angeles anymore, right? It's almost passé at this point, but I don't really care. I like the weather, and the old-school "we used to be the home of the entertainment industry" vibe. And Dallas is... well ... It's fucking Dallas, isn't it? Mega-City One. Too many damn laws in Texas. Too many people watching your every goddamn move.

I know. Coming from a network personality, that might almost seem funny. We all have the *hey, look at me!* disease, don't we? But the insane level of surveillance in Texas made me avoid it unless absolutely necessary -- usually once a year, like today.

So, the nap on the train didn't wipe out the hangover like I hoped it would. I might have dropped some perfectly legal amphetamines. OK, so I was pretty much flying on speed when I switched trains at Arlington for downtown Dallas. Judge if you want, I suppose. Pretend you don't take some Umbra Dynamics uppers after a rough night out. I only mention it because it becomes pertinent later.

Downtown Dallas is like time travel, man. There's this part of it called Dealey Plaza that they've kept as it was in the 1960s. When... something... happened. Can't remember what off the top of my head. But it's like walking through an old movie. Kinda cool. The train to downtown lets you off right at Dealey, and there's a pleasant five-block walk through Past-Ville to the FEC building. The FEC -- Federal Entertainment Commission-- used to be the FCC. They once regulated what we could do on Network, before I was born. Nowadays they had no regulatory power -- the Networks just paid them a yearly fee to license its personalities, like me.

Extortion, really, but the Network always paid my fee for me. All I had to do was show up, submit to a DNA scan, and sign a screen. Boom, done. But I had to do it in person, which sucked.

It took me all of five minutes to get that done, and it was almost noon. I was thinking of tracking down some lunch when the chime sounded in my ear.

A lot of the personalities have the implants. It's a simple operation in the middle ear, where their phones are implanted just above the jawline. I don't, at least not anymore. I used to, but retro is coming back in, so I had the implant taken out and replaced it with an old-school earpiece. It looked tight. Still, it was Network property, and it was always on. The chime meant it was Global News calling, and that I couldn't ignore it. I knew I had five seconds to clear my throat and get ready to start talking to whoever was on the other end.

It wasn't a person. It was one of the computers at Global News Headquarters, about a mile and a half from where I was standing in Downtown Dallas.

"Dane Phoenix," the computer's voice, deep and male, said. "You have a mandatory appointment at Global News Network Headquarters. Appointment date, 27 July 2098. Appointment time, 1315 Central. Please check in with Ryan Jackson, News Department Head. Confirm."

"Confirmed," I sighed. I'd hoped to get in and out of Dallas without having to go into the office, but they knew I was in town. Probably knew the second I stepped off the train. Fucking Texas.

I'd never met Ryan before, though he was my boss. He'd hired me. But he picked me up out of the London market, back when I'd been working for the Royal News Network. That was in, what, 2094. We interviewed entirely over video chat, and I moved to Los Angeles as soon as he gave me the job. I'd managed to avoid him so far. Him wanting to talk to me in person... well, I had no clue what that meant, but suffice it to say it was a highly irregular request.

I had just over an hour before the meeting, and the speed was starting to rob me of my appetite. I could have called for a lift. Again, the Network would only be too happy to send a driver to me. But it was a nice day, and I was suddenly bursting with energy. That was probably the speed, too. So I decided to leg it, and covered the mile and a half in just under ten minutes.

Yeah. I walk fast. Something odd I've noticed since moving here is that Americans walk painfully slowly. I grew up in Europe, though. Amsterdam, specifically. There, everyone walks like there's a shadow person tailing them, ready to pounce and attack at any second. Here, everyone walks like they've got nowhere in particular to be, even if it's patently obvious that they do. It's weird.

So, of course, I made it to the office early. Had to ask a receptionist -- tall, blond guy with impossible good looks -- where to go. He directed me to the 23rd floor, told me to check in with the receptionist there.

I suspect the Network is doing secret cloning. The guy behind the desk on the 23rd floor looked exactly like the one in the lobby, or so I thought. Could have been the speed again. It's safe and legal, and everything, but it can throw your brain a curve ball or six if you overuse it... which I really had lately.

Anyway, the clone pointed me to Ryan's office, down at the end of the hall, with instructions to have a seat outside. I didn't. Only because I didn't have a chance, though. The door was open, and Ryan was inside. Without a word, he waved me into the office.

"You're early. I like your initiative," he said. He was wearing workout clothes, black athletic pants and a black tank top. There was a cross-training machine in his office, I saw as I stepped inside and he closed the door behind me. He'd been working out. I could tell by the sweat he was still toweling off his brow. I didn't know people still really worked out, with machines and stuff. I take the pharmaceutical route, and so does everyone else I know. Not Ryan Jackson, apparently.

"Vladimir Andrevich," Ryan said. He sat behind his desk and tossed the towel onto the machine. "You know him?"

"Know *of* him," I said. "Everyone kind of does."

"Well, everyone over the age of 15. He's been off the grid for years."

"But not anymore?" I asked. I was sweating now, too. Damn speed.

"Apparently not. His press agent contacted the Network this morning."

Andrevich was a legend when I was a kid. Best cage fighter the world had ever seen. Nowadays, it was a rare thing to be considered a global celebrity, but Andrevich sure was.

"He returning to the cage?"

"No. But the IFAA is planning a ceremony to honor him, day after tomorrow. And he's attending."

Now, that was interesting. Andrevich had been undefeated until 2094, when he'd killed a man in the cage. Accidentally, he said. And though I already suspected the answer to this question, I asked anyway.

"And this has something to do with me?" I asked.

"We're sending you out on assignment. You meet with him tonight, interview him tomorrow, cover the ceremony after."

Yep. Pretty much what I thought.

"I don't cover sports, Ryan. Celebrity beat, hard news. Wouldn't someone like Jagger Cash --"

"Jagger Cash is an idiot," Ryan said, cutting me off. "And Andrevich's people said he specifically requested you. So that's the job."

And that was it. That was all he said to me. He looked at me, then at the office door. I'm not brilliant, but I got the hint. I stood up, managed a quick half-wave, and I left. The 23rd floor clone was waiting outside, and he motioned for me to follow him.

"Your flight leaves DFW in two hours," he said, heading for the elevator.

"Where am I going?"

"Hawaii. Honolulu," he said.

"Hear that used to be pretty nice."

"Parts of the island are. The part you're heading to might as well be Chicago," he said.

"Beautiful. Background info?"

"Already downloading to your screen," he said, nodding at the thin-film screen on my forearm. I checked, and there was, indeed, a progress bar just finishing up.

"Private flight?" I asked.

"Goes without saying."

"Good man. Hey, is the guy downstairs -- "

"My brother. Yeah."

"Twins?"

"No, just born on the same day."

I smirked. I thought I saw Clone-23 smirk, as well, as the elevator doors closed and I descended quickly down into the lobby to see his brother. I was sure Clone-1 would have my ride to the airport ready, as well as the list of the crew I'd be working with. Locals, I'd guess. Hopefully, they weren't as bad as the last local crew I'd used -- the wardrobe person was shit. Shirts too small, pants too big. I'd had to go shopping myself with half an hour until I went live. Didn't want a repeat of that one -- not with a story this big.

* * *

Yeah, I know. You're saying, "What the hell, Dane? You said you were going to talk about Day One. This ain't that. This is some boring shit about Network politics, about how you rich people talk to each other."

Trust me. I'm getting there. All of this stuff is relevant, believe it or not, though you might not see the whole picture for a while yet. I know I sure didn't. But I know it must seem disjointed, especially because you never saw the interview with Vladimir Andrevich. You never got the chance. A bigger story -- Day One -- came up before you could. Remember where I was when I first reported on the incidents of that day?

That's right. Hawaii. You think you're starting to put it together now, and I suppose you are -- at least part of it, anyway. The full picture is something that didn't make much sense when I finally put it together. Hell, I'm not sure it makes much sense now.

Anyway, I did my research on the flight to Hawaii. It was only two and a half hours, but turns out I didn't need all the time. As I started reading the network-assembled dossier, stuff started coming back to me.

Like I said, Andrevich was a global celeb. Everyone was a fan, even me when I was younger. I never saw him fight in person, but he was all over the network for effing years.There were some interesting details in his file, though, stuff I didn't know before.

First, there was the matter of his hometown. I'd assumed Andrevich was from Russia, but that wasn't true. He was born in a small town in the New Soviet Republic, winter 2049. That couldn't have been an easy place to grow up. After the China War in the 20s, part of Russia had split off and gone communist. Again. The land they claimed was mostly crap wilderness in Siberia near the Chinese border, so Russia let them go. Well, eventually.

There were the requisite border skirmishes and saber-rattling, but even Russia knew the land was horrible, cold, and mostly useless. There wasn't much there in the way of natural resources, and the NSR quickly became a third-world country. Even China abandoned them. China ditched Communism in the 40s, but the NSR bullheadedly stuck with it. I'd never known anyone who grew up in that area. I just assumed most people didn't make it to adulthood alive.

He was the hero of his hometown, of course. His file showed that. There was a picture of the town square in New Odessa, one showing a depressing, brown sculpture of Andrevich in a fighting pose. It looked like a child had made it -- the fight tattoos on his arms looked like they'd been scratched into the metal with a knife. They were also inaccurate.

In any civilized society, such a statue would be 30 feet high and stunningly lifelike. Fuck accurate. The fight tattoos would stand out in electric blue, showing the fighter had taken no damage and was in top physical shape. There wouldn't even be a hint that they might be turning red -- that the fighter might be tiring or injured.

Not in New Odessa. Just looking at that one picture of the town square... well, let's say I could see how Vladimir Andrevich wanted to punch someone.

I closed Andrevich's file and checked the time on my screen. Still more than an hour to fly, and I was out of research material. I suppose I could have used the time to write a few interview questions, but I don't really do that anymore. Haven't for a few years. When I stopped overpreparing for interviews was when I got noticed, got a reputation as a guy worth talking to, so I got a bit lazy. Nowadays, I came up with one question -- the first one -- and built all of my subsequent questions on the subject's responses.

Like I said, it's lazy, but it also works. It got me out of a crap job at the bottom rung of the lowest-ranked Euro Network. The Royal News picked me up, and I haven't looked back since.

I was expecting someone from Andrevich's camp to meet me. When I landed, though, I knew the person waiting as I got off the plane. It was Jeremy Ford, one of Global News' best producers. I'd worked with Jeremy for years now, but he hadn't been on my crew list in Dallas a few hours ago.

"Jeremy," I said, smiling.

"Dane," he replied. No smile, and that was unusual. Jeremy was one of the most laid-back guys I'd ever met. Something was up.

"Andrevich's people back out on the interview?" I guessed.

"No, you're set to meet with them tomorrow morning. Flight delays. Some kind of storm at the airport in Munich."

Well, that was good. I would'ver hated to have come all this way for nothing.

"So what's up?" I asked. "You look... well, not happy."

"Something else. Could be big, could be nothing."

Man of few words. That, at least, was like Jeremy.

"And?"

"Ryan wants you to stay on this. No side trips, no B story."

I knew Jeremy well. Better yet, I trusted his instincts -- he'd been the producer on the Atlantic Rail story, which had won me all sorts of awards.

"Well," I said, smiling, "We have time. What say we take a look anyway?"

Epilogue

2011-11-01T23:28:00.001-07:00

I went to work for Jason Black a couple of days after we detonated the bomb. When he offered the job, I didn't even hesitate. I mean, let's face it -- even though he cleared off my criminal record, I wasn't swimming in job prospects. My employer had turned out to be the company I was fighting, and Mike was in the wind anyway. Never saw him again. And, like I said earlier, I'd pretty much exhausted all of the big, scary guy jobs... except for the one Jason Black gave me, I guess.

We tried to go after Umbra for the whole "let's blow up Los Angeles" thing, but we really had nothing. We had no evidence except for the bomb, which we destroyed (and remember, its radiological signature couldn't have been traced back to Umbra anyway). We had Laura's testimony, but she was just one person. Her word against thousands of Umbra employees... yeah, couldn't make that stick. There was my story and Quentin's story, too, but neither of us made stellar witnesses, and our testimony was all stuff that Laura told us, anyway.

So, we had nothing. We tried to put some undercover people inside Umbra for the next couple of years, but it never really worked. The DoD, at Jason Black's recommendation, cut all of their defense funding... until three years later, when 9/11 happened. Then everything was either forgiven or forgotten, because Umbra got an assload of money to ramp up our war machine for the Afghan and Iraq wars.

I worked for Jason Black for, Jesus, 35 more years. So you know what's coming. The nuclear bomb set off in Los Angeles -- Aon Center, sixth floor -- in 2018. Both Black and I smelled a rat, and the investigation landed in our office... and we couldn't do shit with it. Umbra had learned from its mistakes, learned to cover its tracks too well. The most we could get anyone to believe was that North Korean extremists somehow obtained and copied Umbra's plan from 1998, but we couldn't prove it. I mean, we couldn't even prove it was their plan back then. There were rumors, bad reputations, but Umbra kept on getting tons of money throughout the entire China War.

It may seem like we lost. I mean, it seems that way to me, most of the time. But here's the thing -- I'm not dead yet. Neither is Laura. Just saw her before I went to work this morning. And as long as we're still kicking around, we'll find a way to prove it, even as Umbra is looking heroic here in the fourth year of the war. We'll expose what they did.

You know. Eventually.

Chapter Twenty-One

2011-10-31T23:14:00.000-07:00

Meskhiyev's goons took all of the weapons off me, and I let them -- not like they were going to do me a hell of a lot of good anyway, as none of them was likely to have even a single bullet in it. Fuck.

Fucking Mike. I'd known the guy for two years. When had Umbra gotten to him? They just waltz in while some cholo was shooting at me with an AK-47 and drop a pile of money on his desk? Or was it before that, even?

"Take our friend to the holding area down the hall," Meskhiyev said. "We found a perfect use for him. Kenneth will show you where it is."

I looked at Mike, who was nodding. He was also frowning, and lighting yet another Marlboro Light.

"Come on, pal. Let's not make this any harder than it has to be," he said, sighing and blowing out smoke.

Kenneth was a big dude, and Mike had one of his Glocks trained on my back. He might not have been the fastest guy, but I'd gone shooting with him before. His reactions were great, and he was a deadeye. All I'd do if I ran for it was get a nice hole blown somehwere in me, and I was pretty damned tired of getting shot by this point.

"How long have you been in on this, Mike?"

"Only a couple of months longer than you have, man," he said.

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Jesus. Wake up. You know how much business we don't get. Really think I can support a staff the size of the one I maintain? Umbra owns the bail bond shop, Jake."

"Then that means..."

"Yeah. We're both Umbra employees. Though I doubt your recent adventures have put you in the running for employee of the month."

As soon as Mike said that, it clicked. What he'd said back in the Excursion before we jumped out and ran for the doors -- it was from the U.S. Army Ranger Handbook. I'd read it once on a particularly boring war movie, where I'd found it laying around. Mike was a former Army Ranger, and probably former Umbra Security. Or maybe not so former, after all.

I guess I've never been great at reading people. I mean, sure, I like to tell myself I can see a certain look in a jumper's eye when I confront them and they're going to run, but I don't think you have to be John Fucking Douglas to see that. They're already in fight or flight mode, and if their eyes are darting around rather than sizing you up, chances are pretty good they're going to bolt. But that's about the extent of my people-reading abilities.

Still, when I looked into Mike's eyes as he and Kenneth led me down a long hallway towards a block of offices at the edge of the building, I could swore I saw something there. Regret. Sadness. That he didn't want to be doing this, and that we were, after all, friends. It could have been wishful thinking on my part, but if I got a chance, I knew I'd try to play it. Not like I had a whole lot of other options at this point.

"So what's Meskhiyev's plan for him?" Mike asked. If there was something in his eyes, it wasn't in his voice -- he sounded as level and steady as ever.

"Hey, every good conspiracy needs an Oswald," Kenneth rumbled, turning to Mike and grinning. "We leave him here when everything goes boom, and he gets counted as one of the missing. When the police go looking for him -- eventually -- they'll find a whole bunch of crazy shit at his apartment. Won't help that we'll mess with his police record, too. You'd be surprised how easy it is to create a Chinese collaborator. Boom. Insta-terrorist."

Mike nodded.

"I see."

I'd never seen Mike move as fast as I did then. Guess he must have been keeping some of those Army Ranger skills sharp, because his right hand suddenly became a blur. Before I knew what had happened, Kenneth was gurgling on the floor, a large blade stuck directly through his throat. He twitched for a few seconds, then stopped moving altogether. Mike wiped the blood off of his right hand onto Kenneth's black trouser leg, then pulled out a Marlboro Light and tucked it in his mouth.

"She's at the other end of the building," he said. "Umbra has offices here under the name Global Computing. The bomb is in the waiting area there, tucked in a cubby under the receptionist's desk."

Mike lit the smoke and looked at me. He reached into his jacket and handed me both Glock .23s.

"You can shoot me now, but that'll bring a lot of people down on us, make it harder for you to get to her. Go down to 5 and take the back stairwell up to 6. It'll put you right at Global's door. You succeed, find me and we can settle up after. If not... well, we'll both be dead anyway. Go."

I didn't wait for Mike to tell me again. I was off like a shot before I even considered hitting him -- old habits, I guess. I mean, the guy was my best friend for the last two years. It's only recently I found out he's an Umbra scumbag. Though, to be fair, I guess I'm an Umbra scumbag, too. It was all getting a little too confusing, and I don't even think I could blame the concussion anymore.

I ran down the nearest staircase to the fifth floor. Every fourth light in the hallway was on, which meant that everyone had probably cleared out for the night hours ago. The back stairwell was a bit of a jog, but I was wrong earlier when I said my adrenaline had run out. Either that, or I had produced more, because I was running faster than I knew I could, and for once, I was feeling no pain. I stopped at the entrance to the back stairwell, not even a little out of breath, and slowly opened the door. These interior stairwells were like speakers -- if I slammed the thing open, it was sure whoever was waiting on the next floor up would hear it. I pushed the door open just enough to squeeze through, then closed it behind me as softly as I could. I ascended the stairs sideways, one at a time, moving on the balls of my feet. There were only fourteen steps and a landing between me and the sixth floor, but it took me almost a full minute to reach them.

The stairwell had a tiny window in the center, and I flattened myself against the wall next to it and slowly peeked out. No one in the hall, at least not that I could see. I pressed my ear to the crack between the door and the frame and listened. Except for the sound of my own breathing, which sounded way too loud, I heard nothing. No movement, no sound. If ever there was a go time, I suppose it was right then.

I used the same care in opening the door to the sixth floor as I had to the fifth. No one jumped out at me, and about ten or fifteen yards away, I saw the door for Global Computing. It was closed, and there was a floor-length window on the side opposite me. I crouched down in the hallway for a few seconds, but nothing moved near the window.

The temptation was to shoot right through the glass with one Glock as I kicked open the door and sprayed the room with bullets from the other. Panic, chaos, and hopefully a pile of dead Umbra Security people. Problem there, though, was that Laura wasn't expecting me to show up, so she wouldn't know to drop to the floor. If I just peppered the room with gunfire, my chances of hitting her were pretty good.

I won't lie and say I didn't consider doing it anyway, even after I thought about Laura. But I didn't just open fire wildly. I suppose that counts for something.

But I did kick in the door, mainly because I couldn't think of anything else to do, and time was a factor. And I lucked out and caught them sleeping. There were only four Umbra Security guys in the room, probably because they didn't think they needed any more than that to handle a 120-pound girl scientist. Only one had a weapon in his hand, and as I cleared the doorframe, I saw he had it pointed halfheartedly in Laura's direction as she worked on the device in front of the receptionist's desk. He tried to turn the gun on me, but I put one in his forehead before he could even complete his turn toward the door. I kept both guns up and pointed at the other three guys, who were across the room.

No one said anything for a second -- everyone just froze. I guess shooting that dude in the head was a real conversation killer. One of the Umbra guys started to put his hands in the air.

"Come on, Laura. Gotta move," I said.

"Give me one of those guns," she told me. "I can't wrestle this thing into the bag by myself."

I walked sideways, never taking my eyes off the Umbra guys, keeping both guns pointed at them. They stayed motionless, and I backed over to where Laura was now standing.

"Take the gun from my right hand," I told her, still dead-locked on the Umbra Security people.

I felt her reach around and place her hand over mine, and I slowly released the Glock into her grasp.

"Got 'em?" I asked.

"Got 'em."

I turned my head and looked at the bomb. It was roughly cylindrical, about three feet long, and covered in a steel casing that was new since the last time I'd seen it.

"This thing operational?" I asked.

"I've had it done for a half an hour. Just stalling until you showed up," she told me.

There was a green, military-style duffel bag on the floor near the bomb. The device was heavy, but I managed to wrestle the bomb into the bag and get the whole mess slung over my shoulder in a matter of seconds. I took the Glock back from Laura.

"Head for the door. Stairwell outside and to the right. I'll catch up with you in a couple of seconds."

Laura didn't need to be told twice. She was out the door in a flash, and I cocked my head at the Umbra guys in front of me. I wasn't entirely sure what to do with them -- if I just bolted, they'd surely raise the alarm and chase after us. That was no good. But I didn't want to just kill them all -- one body on my conscience was quite enough, thanks.

"Sorry, gentlemen. I'm going to have to kneecap you," I said with a sigh.

"Try just below the knee," one of them, a tall Hispanic guy, said. "Better chance we'll recover, less chance we'll have to hunt you down and rip your legs off."

"Fair enough."

* * *

I had a key to the Excursion -- Mike gave me one months back when the Beast was in the shop. I didn't think about it until Laura and I were in the truck and moving, but I realized Umbra might be able to track the vehicle. Of course, I had no other car, and there was really nothing I could do about it other than hope they couldn't track us. If they did, I'd just have to deal with it.

"You OK?"

It wasn't me who asked, though common courtesy and chivalry dictated that it should have been. It was Laura.

"I'm still breathing. That's enough," I said. "Could use about a sack of painkillers, but I'll hold."

"Good. We need to get out into the desert. Can you handle that?"

"Yeah. You're going to disassemble the bomb?"

"Yes. Well, kind of. I'm going to detonate it."

I thought about it for a second, and that made a lot of sense. Umbra couldn't rebuild it if there was nothing left. And out in the desert made sense, too -- didn't she say the thing's effective range was only about a kilometer? Or a mile? One of those.

On one of my Vegas trips in my youth, I'd decided to rent a car and drive out to where Area 51 was supposed to be. I never saw anything but blank, open desert. Just the kind of place you could set off a nuclear bomb with no one knowing. So that's where I headed.

It took six hours to drive out that far, and no one seemed to be following us. Out past Rachel, NV, we drove for another 20 miles before we found a nice, empty stretch of nothing with mountains on either side. I drove off the road about a mile and a half, but the mountains didn't seem to be any closer. It was as good a spot as any.

As we unloaded the bomb from the back of the SUV, my cell phone rang. That was odd, because it was off. And the battery was supposed to be dead. But it rang, and I noticed a Nevada area code. I shrugged and answered it.

"Hey, Jake. Wanna tell me why you're dumping a nuclear device on my front lawn?" Jason Black asked.

Chapter Twenty

2011-10-26T23:32:00.000-07:00

I managed to make it off the plane relatively quickly, but I was definitely looking over my shoulder as I jogged through LAX to catch a cab. I'd never taken a cab in Los Angeles, but I figured the not-insignificant wad of cash in my front pocket would cover the ride to...

Well, that was the question, wasn't it? Where do I head? I mean, I knew I had to get to the Aon Center. That much was a given. But I wouldn't be rolling in there unarmed, I can tell you that for sure. My apartment would be the logical place, but all I have there is a .38 Revolver that's probably older than I am. No ammo for it anyway. I knew Quentin kept a stockpile of all sorts of guns around his place in Silver Lake, but he kept that house locked up like a fortress. If he wasn't back from Las Vegas yet, I'd just be wasting my time going all the way out there and having to try and get a cab to come pick me up in a sketchy neighborhood in the middle of the night.

My cell battery had died hours ago, and I was having trouble remembering things like telephone numbers. That started to worry me -- the concussion (or, more likely, multiple concussions) had to be worse than I thought.

Still, I could think clearly enough to remember that Mike kept several guns around the office, so that's the address I gave the taxi driver.

We pulled up outside the office in 20 minutes. And, of course, it was open, even closing in on 11 at night. Thing is, bail bond offices don't often close -- there's always someone there. It's usually Mike, because I'm pretty sure he doesn't sleep, but every once in a while, it's his younger brother Jerry. Jerry's an idiot, so I was hoping for Mike.

I was in luck. When I walked in, Mike was just lighting up a fresh Marlboro Light. No one else was in the building, which was also lucky, as Mike would soon tell me.

"Jesus Harold Christ, Jake. You look awful," Mike said, blowing out smoke and frowning.

"Good to see you too, man."

"Did you get Laura Mills?"

"Had her. Lost her. But she's here in town, and I know where she's going to be."

"Just tell me, man. Shit, I'll go pick her up. You look like you need a fucking hospital. Or maybe an undertaker."

Now that was tempting. Bow out now, get some medical attention. Let Mike go in -- he was fresh, uninjured, and I knew for a fact the guy could take care of himself. I almost told him about the Aon Center, but I didn't. Not right away.

I can't tell you why I needed to finish this myself, but I did. Even with my frontal lobe shaking around inside my head like a tennis ball in a cement mixer, I couldn't think of anything else but finishing the job. When I closed my eyes, all I saw was Laura Mills' face. I shook my head, and even that hurt.

"No, man. What I need from you is a gun."

"What happened to your Sig?" Mike asked. He knew I was attached to the weapon.

"Sitting in the back of a Cadillac in DFW's long-term parking."

"I don't even wanna know, man," Mike said, shaking his head. "Cops were here earlier looking for you anyway. More I know, more I gotta tell them when they come back. Come on. Follow me."

Mike led me back through the office, past his private office and to a door between the two public bathrooms. The door was heavy, steel, and marked "Electrical." Every time I'd popped into the office, I'd pretty much ignored the door -- what the fuck did I need with the building's electrical room? I'd accidentally tried the knob once, but it was of course locked.

Mike selected a key from his massive, crammed key ring (I always joked that he had janitor keys) and unlocked the door.

It wasn't the electrical room.

The room was much larger than I would have thought -- probably bigger than my apartment. The walls to the left and right of the door were half-covered with shelves, all of them packed with boxes, cans, and plastic bottles. The rest of the room was crowded with weapons -- assault rifles, pistols, sniper rifles, machine guns, shotguns, and even a minigun. I wasn't sure what to say for a minute. I just stood there blinking.

"Fuck, man."

"Cool, isn't it?" Mike said, grinning.

"Why the fuck..."

"Y2K, man. Whole world's going down in 18 months. And I'm going to be ready when it turns Mad Max out there."

Part of me wanted to find that reasoning a little crazy, but I really couldn't. Who knew what was going to happen in the next couple of years? For all I knew, he might be right. And for all I knew, it might happen a lot sooner than that -- if Umbra managed to set off their nuke before I could stop them.

Calling the cops was out. They'd arrest me on sight, and not entirely without reason. So it was just me and however much of Mike's hardware I could carry.

I was facing a bit of optional paralysis. I mean, the minigun was the biggest, so that had to be the best, right? But even a guy my size probably wouldn't be able to control that monster. It was meant to be mounted inside of helicopters, for Christ's sake. I can't even imagine how Mike got his hands on one.

"Having trouble choosing?" Mike said after a minute.

"Yeah."

"Here," he said, pulling an assualt rifle off the wall. "M-16A3. Full auto, laser sights, extended magazine. Basic all-around, can't-miss workhorse."

I took the M-16 -- it was lighter than I would have thought. As I slung it over my back, Mike opened a large case and pulled out two pistols. They were ginormous.

"Desert Eagle .44's," he said, grinning proudly. "They'll kill a freaking rhino. I can't use 'em -- firing one would probably break my wrist -- but you shouldn't have a problem."

Mike dug around and found a double shoulder holster for the giant-sized pistols, then found a couple of extra clips for each.

"Careful with the ammo on those, now. Only have seven rounds each. Plus side, hit anywhere near what you're aiming at, and you'll probably kill it. Now, for behind the back, the classic 1911 .45. Most dependable pistol ever made," he said, holding up one of the pistols.

"Yeah, I've used one before."

"Better take two."

I was loaded up now -- five guns, close to 75 rounds before I'd have to reload. I hoped I wouldn't *need* 75 rounds, but I couldn't be sure. My impression was that everything up to this would have felt like a cake walk -- they had to know I was coming as soon as White never reported in. They'd be ready.

"I appreciate this, Mike."

"You appreciate what, man? You were never here. And I," Mike said, grabbing an AK-47 off the wall and slinging it over his shoulder, "Well, if anyone asks, I was at a family barbecue in Inglewood."

"You don't have any family in Inglewood, Mike. And you're not coming with me."

"Fuck that, man. You're damn near dead on your feet. You need backup, and I'm right behind you. Remember, I'm your boss. I tell you what to do, get it?"

Mike lit a fresh cigarette and smiled before grabbing a pair of Glock .23s from a shelf and shoving them into his belt.

* * *

Traffic was light, and we weren't that far from the Aon Center anyway. We took Mike's ridiculous 1997 Eddie Bauer Ford Excursion, a crazy-large SUV that was totally inappropriate for driving around the city, but it was the company car. Mike's reasoning was that it doubled as advertising, and it was good for taking bail jumpers to jail in. Whatever.

Mike rolled up slowly on the building, and I scanned the front as we rolled by. I counted several black sedans out in front, parked in employee spaces. There were lights on on the sixth floor, where White had said they'd be putting the bomb. We didn't have much time.

"I think they're here, and they're setting up," I told Mike.

He nodded and kept the Excursion rolling slowly, driving a block away and parking on the street. We'd have to jog it a twelfth of a mile with automatic weapons strapped to our back, but Mike and I had done that before, sadly. And we had a way around it. Bail bondsmen are issued badges in California, which we wear around our necks when we need to look official. They really looked nothing like LAPD or LA Sheriff's badges, but most people couldn't tell the difference. They could have been Fire Marshal badges and folks still wouldn't usually question why the two of us were running around with assault rifles. Mike took two badges out of the pile in the glove compartment and handed me one.

"Glass doors," he said as I put the badge around my neck. "Even if they're locked, we're in. Elevators are only secured after the tenth floor. Let's do this fast. Overwhelm with extreme violence, yeah?"

Something about what he said there sounded familiar, but I wasn't sure what it was. I chalked it up to the head wounds -- I mean, it was a miracle I was still understanding the spoken word at that point. I wouldn't have put it past my bruised, swollen brain to ring familiarity bells at something I'd never heard in my life. I thought about shaking my head to clear the sensation, but the last time I did that, all I got was a bunch of black spots in my vision. Instead, I hopped out of the truck, grabbed the M-16 from the footwell, and slung it over my back. Mike was already out and jogging, but he's a littler guy, so I caught up with him pretty quickly.

He stopped just short of the glass front entrance to the Aon Center and posted up behind a stone column. Seriously, whoever designed most buildings must have had situations like this in mind -- it's rare that even a guy my size can't find anything to hide behind for a couple of seconds while assessing the situation. Mike was frozen for, well, a couple of seconds.

"No security guards moving in the lobby," he whispered.

"Umbra probably took them out or bribed them," I said.

"I bet you're right. Come on."

Mike moved low and fast, and silently. That was one of the advantages of his size over mine, I guess. I move pretty quiet for a big dude, but Mike's like a fucking ninja. A two-pack-a-day ninja, sure. But he's quiet. I tried to keep the M-16 from clanking around as I followed, but he made it to the door first and put a hand on it. It opened with no problems.

I followed Mike into the lobby, where he still moved low and silent, but it looked kind of silly in a brightly lit, high-ceilinged room. I, on the other hand, just walked normally over to the elevator and hit the call button. The door opened immediately.

"Too easy," I grumbled as the doors closed and the car started to ascend.

"I was just thinking the same thing," he said quietly. "Finger on the trigger, yeah?"

As the door opened, I did have my finger on the trigger of the M-16, and had it pointed down in front of me so I could whip it up quickly if there was anyone on the other side of the door. It was a tactic some military advisor had taught us on a terrible film I did back in '92, but it worked. As the doors opened, I saw Meskhiyev and several of his pals in black suits, all armed, all waiting and ready to fire.

I brought up the M-16 and pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. Fuck. Jammed, I thought, dropping the assault rifle and going for the Desert Eagles.

I never put my hands on them, though. I felt the barrel of a gun jammed into the back of my head.

"Sorry about this, man," I heard Mike say from behind me.

Chapter Nineteen

2011-10-10T23:31:00.001-07:00

[Chapter Nineteen]

I had an idea. It was a long shot, and it meant I'd have to move fast, so I was already running as I started to figure out the small details.

White hadn't fired when I'd jumped up and emptied my clip, which could have meant he was ready to extract. To get the hell out of there. Assuming he hadn't left immediately after the last shot he'd fired, he would need time to break down his rifle, get to the street level, and get to his vehicle. With the black Caddy just tearing around the corner as I watched, I figured he hadn't started packing it in until Meskhiyev contacted him to let him know they had Laura.

White would have had stairs or an elevator to deal with, whereas I had distance. The building across the courtyard from the City Center was a block away, and I could cover a city block pretty fast. As I made it to the end of the block, I flattened myself against the wall and peeked out quickly. Nothing moving on the street yet, but there was another big black Cadillac parked just across the street from the entrance to White's building.

I paused to check my weapon -- empty, and I didn't have another clip on me. I would just have to hope that White wasn't rocking a secondary weapon. That was, of course, past the hope that he hadn't already vanished. Really, there was very little plan at this point, but plenty of blind, stupid hope.

It only took a few seconds of waiting before White came barelling out of the building, a long duffel bag slung over his shoulder. For an ex-Marine, his situational awareness was crap -- he didn't bother looking left or right as he left the building, just headed straight on towards his Cadillac. I only had about ten steps between me and him, and I covered them as quickly and quietly as possible.

Though not quietly enough, as it turned out. When I was still three steps away, White turned and reached inside his coat, but he wasn't fast enough. I was already on him, and I tackled him to the ground like he had just caught a nice 30-yard pass near my end zone. Whatever he was reaching for in his jacket stayed in his jacket, and the back of his head bounced off the street next to his car. I didn't have to make sure he was out cold -- I'd heard a loud crack when his skull hit the pavement. I had to check to make sure he was still alive.

He was, thankfully. He was breathing, and there wasn't any blood coming from his head. Would have been kind of counterproductive to kill him -- no way to beat any information out of him then. I knew I'd have to move fast, though. Unless I'd done some severe damage, he wouldn't be out more than a couple of minutes.

First order of business -- neutralize any threat he might pose when he woke up. I checked his jacket -- he had been reaching for a handgun, a 1911 model .45, which I took and shoved into my own jacket. Further searching turned up two knives and an extra clip for the handgun, so I took all of those, as well as his car keys.

I used the knife to slice up his jacket into strips, then wrestled the large ex-Marine into the Caddy's passenger seat. I used what was left of his jacket -- high-tensile stuff, like a black BDU coat -- to tie him securely to the seat.

There wasn't time to go back and get Mendez and Rodriguez, as Laura was just getting further away with each passing second. Besides, I'm pretty sure neither one of them would approve of what I was about to do. Hell, I didn't even like the idea, but it was the only one open to me.

I got into the Caddy, started the engine, and tore off in the direction I'd seen the other Cadillac heading. White woke up after maybe a minute.

"They're going to kill you, you know," I heard him say from the passenger seat. His words were slurred a bit -- concussion, probably.

"Yeah, probably," I said. "So, let's make it easy on them. Where are we headed?"

White said nothing. Not taking my eyes off the road, I pulled one of his knives from my jacket. It was a smaller blade, maybe three inches long, but double-edged and pretty damn sharp, if the way it had gone through his coat was any indication. I held it up in the area between us.

"Might want to tell me," I told him.

"Fuck off," he grumbled.

So I jammed the knife into his thigh just above the kneecap.

To his credit, White didn't scream, though anyone with eyes could tell he wanted to. His eyes went wide and his face turned red, and he bit into his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. I knew I'd gotten him pretty good -- I'm pretty sure I felt the blade hit bone. Not that I'm an expert at torturing people for information, or anything, but I think I was off to a pretty good start. Or a bad one, I guess. Depends on your point of view.

"Now, if you don't want me to start twisting the blade around, or see what else I can stab while keeping my eyes on the road, you probably want to tell me where we're going."

"Fuck, man. I didn't think you'd actually do it," White panted.

"Yeah, well. I did. So, where are they taking Laura?"

"Couldn't make the bomb work without her," White grumbled. "Needed her to execute the plan."

I chanced a look over in the passenger seat -- White was, no pun intended, turning white. He was going into shock, I guessed. Looks like I wasn't so good at this torturing thing after all.

"I already figured that much out, jackass," I told him. I could feel sweat forming between my nose and mouth.

"He's taking her to the bomb," White said. His voice was getting weak.

"Again, figured that bit out," I said with a sigh, reaching for the knife handle, exaggerating my shoulder movement so he could see I was going to twist the knife in his thigh.

I really didn't want to do that, though. I was already feeling a little sick about the damage I'd done -- what if I'd hit the femoral artery? I hadn't even thought of that before now. What if he bled out?

"Los Angeles," White said. "Aon Center. Sixth floor."

"See? That's all you had to say. Hey, you know where there's an emergency room around here?"

* * *

I had a choice to make, and I had to make it fast. Did I get on the phone to Jason Black, let him know what was up? Or did I ditch White's car and weapons and catch the next commercial flight to Los Angeles?

The logical thing to do would have been call Jason Black, of course. The guy obviously had the power to get me from Dallas to Los Angeles with no problem, but there was this itching in the back of my brain, like a single fire ant had crawled up in my skull where I couldn't kill him. Jason Black had sent us to Dallas. Dallas was a trap. Dallas was exactly where Umbra Dynamics had wanted us to go, exactly where they sent their two best shooters (at least) to snag Laura and bring her to the actual bomb site. Now, there was no way for me to *prove* Jason Black did or didn't know about the trap, but how had the Umbra folks -- the majority of them from the Las Vegas facility, I'm sure -- left for Los Angeles without him knowing it?

The only thing that made me kind of trust him was that he was chasing down a bum lead, as well. But as I thought about that, I couldn't even be sure that was true. He *said* he was on a flight to Russia, but it's not like he called me when he got there. It's not like I even saw him get on the plane. Could the guy be on Umbra's payroll? I didn't think so, but they did work contracts for the government, and Jason Black was part of the government. Did Umbra's plan have some Shadow-Agency stamp of approval? Did it go deeper than one corporation's greed?

In the end, I decided to go to the airport on my own and call Black when I was in Los Angeles. With luck, I'd be able to head Laura and Meskhiyev off at the airport, but that would take a lot more luck than I seemed to be having lately -- Dallas had three airports that I knew of (DFW, Love Field, and Addison), and probably five more that I didn't.

I decided to head for DFW -- it was the biggest, and therefore probably had the best chance of having a flight to LAX sometime soon. The airport itself was bigger than the city I grew up in, so I didn't even know where to start. Eventually, I just decided to dump White's car in long-term parking (along with anything incriminating I might have on me, wiped down and cleaned of fingerprints) and take the shuttle to one of the terminals.

I walked up to the American ticketing counter and found that there was a flight leaving for LAX via Phoenix in twenty minutes. I bought a coach ticket in cash, and ran to make my gate.

It wasn't a crowded flight, and I ended up having a row to myself. Once the flight attendants were through their safety lecture and we were airborne, I went ahead and threw up the armrests and laid down. I've never been able to sleep on planes -- something about being in motion while trying to rest -- but that wasn't an issue this time. I'd been running full-bore for days, and apart from a quick nap at the start of this whole debacle and a little bit of sleep in Quentin's hotel room, I'd been awake and moving (and by moving, I mostly mean getting my ass kicked) the whole time. I was out before the seat-belt light turned off.

In Phoenix, I finally got a chance to grab something to eat, something else I realized I hadn't done in a while. I realized then that I had no idea what was keeping me moving -- adrenaline had to have run out about a day and a half ago. I didn't have too much time to think about it, though -- I had a flight back home to catch.

The flight to Los Angeles was strangely packed, and though I'm quite obviously the size of a small tree, they went ahead and seated me right in between two rather hefty gentlemen in full suits. It was a Friday night, well past midnight, so I couldn't figure out the reason for the formal wear. As I looked around (if I really concentrated, I could turn my head almost halfway to the left), I saw a bunch of other rather large guys in suits as well.

"What is there, a convention?" I muttered.

Must have been the large collection of concussions I was putting together, but it never really occurred to me that both of the portly dudes on either side of me could hear that. They sure could, though.

"Yeah. Pharmaceutical sales convention in Phoenix this whole week," the guy on my left said. If he caught the condesending tone in my voice, he was polite enough not to mention it. Or, possibly, I looked too damn scary for him to want to make an issue of it.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. This company called Umbra Dynamics introduced some new anti-cancer research. It was pretty exciting," the guy on my right said. It was obvoious this dude hadn't heard anything amiss in my tone -- he was too damn excited.

I nodded, but something about what he said struck me as odd. I thought Umbra was in the defense business. What the hell were they doing in the pharmaceutical field, too? And cancer research? That didn't sound like something a company dead-set on detonating a nuclear bomb in a major American city would waste money on.

I had planned to catch another nap on the short flight from Sky Harbor to LAX, but that wasn't going to happen. You try catching a few winks when you're jammed between two sweaty human sausages wrapped in ill-fitting suits. It didn't help that both of them had the air conditioning fucking blasting, which shouldn't have surprised me. Big, out-of-shape dudes are always sweating, seems like. So in addition to being crushed on both sides, I was freezing -- my jacket was more for looks (and to cover guns) than it was for warmth. I was suddenly reminded of the scene in Empire Strikes Back where Han Solo cuts open that weird camel-thing and sticks Luke Skywalker inside to keep him warm. Using these guys for insulation would have been an improvement -- at least they wouldn't have been chattering back and forth across me the entire flight.

A thought did occur to me while I was trying to tune out the whales on either side of me -- there could be Umbra employees on the plane with me. I mean, they had just been at the same conference as my morbidly obese seatmates. I doubted any Umbra pharmaceutical reps would know their company was looking for (or trying to kill) me, but I couldn't be sure of that. They'd surprised me with how far they could reach already -- I figured I'd better make it off the plane as soon as it hit the ground.

That is, if I could extricate myself from the cellulite sandwich before the plane headed back to Phoenix for the night.

Chapter Eighteen

2011-09-19T22:08:00.001-07:00

I wasn't dead. As much as I'd like to say I realized that instantly, I didn't. It took Airman Mendez slamming into me -- for a little guy, he made a hell of a defensive tackle -- for me to realize I was still alive.

Good thing he did, too. Otherwise, the bullet that just nicked my left shoulder would have gone straight into my chest. I hit the ground hard, jamming the other shoulder into the pavement, which slowed me down enough that when the side of my head hit the concrete, it didn't knock me out. It just hurt like a motherfucker.

"Get away from the door!" Rodriguez yelled. I could see Laura, her back against the brick wall to the left of the door, and I managed to pull myself most of the way over to her. Mendez was right in front of me, dragging me the rest of the way.

"What the fuck happened?" I groaned, blinking several times. There were spots in front of my eyes so big I could see more white than anything else.

"Flashbang grenade," Mendez told me, reaching into my coat and pulling out one of the pistols. "Someone really doesn't want us to go in there."

"Miguel! You ready?" Rodriguez yelled from the right side of the door.

"On three!" he yelled back.

Though he'd said they'd go on three, I didn't hear either of them counting. Instead, they both were on the move a couple of seconds later, clearing the doors with their guns at the ready. I struggled into a sitting position and reached in my coat for the other pistol, which turned out to be my Sig.

"You really shouldn't go in there," Laura said, shaking her head.

"Yeah, I know," I said, getting to my feet. I could hear gunshots inside.

I blinked a few more times -- my vision was almost clear now, and my feet felt as steady under me as I suspected they were going to get. I crouched low and crept towards the open door, my gun held up and at the ready. As I spun inside, I caught a glimpse of Miguel. He was taking cover behind a decorative planter made of brick. I jumped toward him just as a bullet smashed into the door behind me.

"You good, big man?" Miguel asked. He sounded calm.

"Yeah."

"Good. Shooter on the balcony across the way. One guy, bolt-action rifle. Remington 700's my guess. He's only got two more rounds before he has to reload."

"Brendan White," I said. "He's a former Marine sniper."

"Crap. That means he's not going to shoot again until we give him something to shoot at," Miguel said, sighing.

"I'm wearing Kevlar," Rodriguez told us. I looked past Miguel -- she was taking cover behind a column about five feet from us.

"No good," Miguel said. "My guess is on armor-piercing, the way it didn't even slow down when it went through my man's shoulder here."

I looked at my left shoulder. I thought the bullet had just grazed me, but it had gone clean through my deltoid, making a neat little hole. I expected it to hurt more, but it just felt kind of numb.

"So what do we do? Hang out here until he gets bored?" I asked.

"He won't. Not if he's a Marine sniper like you say," Mendez said, shaking his head. "We're pinned down until one of us moves."

"Or all three of us," Rodriguez said.

"Now, that's something. All three of us take off for cover in different directions. He can only shoot at one of us at a time -- the other two can open up on him," Mendez replied. "But I think you're the one he really wants, big guy. You good with that?"

"We got any other choice?"

"Not that I can think of," Mendez admitted.

"Looks like that's what we're doing, then," I said with a sigh, thumbing the safety off the Sig and getting ready to sprint.

"You set the tone. You move, we move," Rodriguez told me.

I didn't need to be told twice. In fact, I was glad they didn't. No countdown, no "go," just a simple sprint before I could talk myself out of it. It's easier to do something stupid like put your huge gorilla body out there as a target for a fully-trained Marine sniper if you don't take the time to think about it first, and I certainly didn't think this plan through. All thinking was going to do was get me killed, and I was pretty sure that was going to happen anyway, so why waste the energy?

My destination was a matching planter on the other side of the doorway, the one some uninspired architect had put there to balance out this one. I ran for three steps and then dove, and it turned out that was the right thing to do. Just as I jumped, I heard the crack of the rifle, felt the wind of the round as it passed just over my back and took out what was left of the door behind me. I hit the tile floor hard, chest-first, as I hadn't even had time to put my hands up in front of me. I felt the air rush out of my lungs, and I rolled over on my back. I had the wind knocked out of me and I was seeing starts, but I wasn't dead. So that was a plus.

As I moved, I was vaguely aware that Mendez and Rodriguez were running and shooting. Unless they were amazing shots, there's no way they could have hit White. The distance from us at the door to the balcony across the wide, open plaza was a good 300 yards, I estimated. If one of them managed to put a bullet within ten feet of him, it would be a miracle.

White had only fired once, just the one that narrowly missed turning my spine into goo. That meant he had at least one round left, I thought. And that was when I realized -- he could have reloaded at any point. He didn't necessarily have to wait until he was out of ammo to reload -- he could have popped a fresh magazine in any time while Rodriguez, Mendez, and I thought we were being clever and coming up with a strategy. He could keep us pinned down here as long as he wanted.

And he was just keeping us pinned down. The guy was a former Marine Scout Sniper -- they don't miss unless they want to, yet this guy had missed me once and grazed me once. It was impossible. Unless he was drunk or injured, there was no way he wouldn't have killed all three of us already. He meant to miss, and I was beginning to figure out why.

You know how in movies, the hero sets off an explosion, and every dumbass thug runs right toward it? I never got that, and I often played the dumbass thug doing the running. It never made sense to me -- why would you run directly *toward* something that was trying to kill you? Yet the three of us -- a cop, a Special Forces guy, and a bounty hunter -- had just done exactly that, running right into gunfire. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

We'd left Laura on her own. And that's just what they'd wanted us to do.

The door was out -- White had already shown he could hit that anytime he wanted to. I briefly considered trying to run for more cover, find another exit where he couldn't easily shoot me, then circling back around outside, but giving up any bit of cover I had was probably a bad idea. I mean, I'd already figured out I wasn't his primary target, but I don't doubt he'd be only too happy to explode my skull if I made it easy for him to do.

Mendez and Rodriguez were conversing quietly, but I was too far away to hear what they were plotting. I saw Rodriguez reach for the radio extender on her shoulder, and guessed that she was finally calling in backup. It didn't surprise me too much that she'd been hesitant to do so up until now -- none of us were supposed to be here, anyway. There would be a lot of explaining when the cops showed up, and I didn't doubt I'd be seeing the inside of a holding cell if I was still around when they did.

So, you ever done this? Sometimes, you've just spent a couple of minutes convincing yourself that something's a bad idea, but then you inexplicably go ahead and do it anyway? What's that about? It's like our brains have a tiny suicide switch, and when (like me) you've been awake for far too long and are probably walking around with some minor brain injury, that switch goes firmly into the "on" position.

And then you go ahead and take a deep breath, stand up, and fire directly at where you guess the sniper is camped out, even though you know you have no chance in hell of hitting him.

And even though you know a .308 round is probably on the way to your chest even as you pull the trigger.

I emptied my clip, but White didn't fire. I have no idea why, but I wasn't going to waste my time trying to figure it out. I dove back out into the street through what was left of the door, again landing hard on my tortured right shoulder again. If I kept this up, the damned thing would need to be held together by pins and plastic cartiledge. Even then, I was aware it had slipped out of joint at least a little bit.

But I had to put that pain on hold for a second. There would be time to bitch about that later, and if you've followed me this far, you'll recognize that I will, indeed, bitch about it later, in great detail. Now I needed to find Laura, needed to make sure that White taking potshots at us wasn't just a distraction while Meskhiyev or someone grabbed her. I checked where I'd last seen her, but she wasn't there. That didn't necessarily mean anything -- she could have moved to what she felt was a more secure hiding spot. I know I would have.

I checked behind and around the police car, and the Air Force car Mendez had used to ferry us there. Nope. I quickly jogged up and down the street about fifty feet in each direction, dropping low to check under cars and sticking my head into alleys. Still nothing.

It wasn't long before I had no choice but to start yelling.

"Laura!" I shouted, aware as I did so that I sounded like I was calling for a runaway puppy. "Laura!"

No answer. But I soon saw why.

I didn't find Laura, but I found her shoes, both of them, one neatly next to the other in the middle of the street. I don't know how I'd missed them as I was running around -- possibly because I was almost completely ignoring the street in favor of possible hiding places. As I looked up from the shoes, I saw a black Cadillac tearing off down the street. And that was when I knew they had her.

Someone had left the shoes deliberately, both to ensure it was harder for Laura to run if she got free and to serve as a nice "fuck you" to me. That latter part made me suspect it was Meskhiyev. Guy was really becoming a pain in my ass, especially because he kept winning -- as of right then, I had no idea where he was taking Laura, but I was pretty sure the bomb wasn't in Texas. No, Texas had been a ruse for them to separate us from Jason Black (don't know how they knew he was involved) and get Laura.

Back when she'd first showed Quentin and I the bomb in the back of the BMW, she'd said it was "nearly complete." And when I thought about that versus her abduction right of the street, it all came together. They weren't chasing Laura because she was going to expose them. They were chasing her because she was the one who could complete the device.

And now they had her, and I had no idea where they were taking her.

Chapter Seventeen

2011-09-04T00:16:00.001-07:00

So, my memory is pretty good. Not foolproof, but decent. Especially my memory for faces -- I'm better with them than with names, though I've gotten better with names in recent years, thanks to my current job (where a name and a photo is often all I have to go on when tracking someone down). So, I thought I remembered what Jason Black looked like.

The guy I met in the hotel bar at the Debbie Reynolds... well, I suppose it *could* have been the same guy I met back on the set of that horrible action film a few years back. I remembered him as being a few inches shorter than me (most people are), but built like a brick shithouse. This guy looked at least similar in the face, but I got the impression he was taller. Thinner. His hair had more gray in it than I remembered, too. But his voice matched up, and it was definitely the same guy I'd been talking to on the phone. I put it down to a combination of fatigue, a budding concussion, and reasoned that the last few years might have been a little tough on the guy. The height thing must have been an illusion, or an error of memory on my part.

"Captain Black?" I said as I approached, though he was the only one at the bar and had probably had eyes on me as soon as I entered the casino floor.

"Jake. Man, have you gotten bigger? Try a few minutes a day outside the gym, kid."

I nodded. The way he talked matched up to the guy I knew. Must be the same guy. I realized at that point I should probably get a CAT scan to make sure my brain wasn't swelling. But that would have to wait.

"What are you drinking?" he asked.

"Something nice and strong. Vicodin in a glass, if they have it," I said, grinning and waving my hand past my wrecked face.

"Rum it is, then."

"So what did you find out?" I asked as my drink arrived and I took a sip.

"Off-the-book flights. Two of them. A little tracking and some frankly illegal digging revealed that both of them were Umbra personnel."

"Did you find out where they were going?"

"One's headed to Moscow. The other one landed at Addison Airport in Texas about forty minutes ago."

"Addison. Is that anywhere near Dallas?"

"Yep."

"Dallas and Moscow were two of the towns on my list," Laura said.

"Yeah, he told me," Black said, nodding to me. "Now, this is unofficial, mind you, and I need you to understand that I am not speaking for, nor acting in any capacity for the United States government."

"I get that."

"Good. Personally, I think it's pretty fucking odd that two off-the-books flights are headed to two cities that could be targets in this little wargames scenario you say Umbra is running. Makes me think there might be something to this. Dr. Mills, do you have a precise location for each of these cities?"

"Part of my job was to find a theoretical location in each city to maximize the damage. So, yeah."

"I have some leave coming to me, so I'm going to take it. Let's check this thing out."

Black took a long, slow sip of his drink. I realized I was the only one drinking alcohol -- Black had strong, black coffee, and Laura hadn't ordered anything. But to be fair, neither of them had the shit kicked out of them by a huge ex-commando. The rum was stinging the two holes where my back molars had been, but I like to think it was also working on the pain.

"So, I'll take Russia. I can get you guys on a black flight to Dallas in about twenty minutes," Black said, finishing off his coffee and waving to the waitress, who was making a show of ignoring the only three customers at the bar.

"Black flight?"

"Unlisted. No plan filed with the FAA. Or I could send you to Moscow, but something tells me neither of you speak Russian, am I right?"

I nodded, and Laura shrugged.

"Not well," she told him. "My passport isn't up to date anyway."

"Heh. Not like I'm going through official channels, here. My cell will stay on the whole time I'm gone. You find something, you call me immediately, got it?"

"Got it."

"Good. When you get to Maccarran, go to the airport security office and ask for a man named John Dixon. He'll set you up." Black looked at his watch. "Better get a move on. And don't worry about the stolen truck you rolled up in. I'll have someone take care of it."

Black waved for the waitress again, but she continued to ignore us. I drank off the rest of my rum, and Black shrugged and dropped his coffee cup on the table.

"Fine. Fuck you, then," he mumbled, getting up.

"I'll take care of the check --" I started.

"Don't bother. We don't pay for anything here. Call me from Dallas."

* * *

John Dixon wasn't what I expected. I was looking for a big dude, ex-military looking, crew-cut and Marine First Recon tattoos. When we got to the security desk and asked the short, thin guy with huge engineer glasses for John Dixon, he pointed to the nametag over his chest, which read, of course, "John Dixon."

"I'm Jacob Harris. Jason Black told me to talk to you."

Again, John Dixon said nothing, just nodded and hopped out of his chair behind the security desk. He was even shorter than I thought, as his chair lent him some height -- the guy was barely over five feet when his two tiny shoes hit the floor. He gestured for Laura and me to follow him, so we did. He badged his way through a security door and led us through a maze of poorly lit tunnels. I was lost pretty quickly, but Dixon seemed to know where he was going. After about two and a half minutes of walking (and for a little guy with a tiny stride, this dude was fast -- I had a hard time keeping up), we walked through a heavy steel door and out onto the tarmac quite a good ways away from the main terminal. Not 50 feet from us, a Gulfstream II sat waiting, the door open and the stairs down.

Dixon just kind of nodded to the plane, jerked his head in the general direction of the open door. Laura went in first, and I followed her. As the stairs lifted up and the door closed, we saw Dixon standing there on the tarmac, short and gnomelike, waving goodbye with one of his tiny hands.

The plane was airborne in minutes. I don't fly often for work these days -- most guys I'm chasing don't get much further than a day's drive. Once, I had to catch a plane to New Orleans to chase after this bank robbery suspect, and that all kinds of sucked. In Louisiana, we bounty hunters have to wear *uniforms* identifying us as such. Kinda makes it hard to sneak up on a motherfucker when you're wearing a blue shirt with "BOUNTY HUNTER" on it in bright, yellow letters.

But anyway, I had to take a flight to that one, and the plane sat on the tarmac for a good half-hour after we boarded. Not so with this flight -- we were screaming down the runway as soon as Laura and I took our overstuffed seats. We were the only passengers, and the door to the cockpit was closed. The thing could have been flown by a robot for all I know.

"How long is the flight to Dallas?" Laura asked me.

"No idea. You're the one who's good with numbers. It's in the top middle part of Texas, and Texas is really fucking big. That's all I know."

A small TV next set into the wall next to the cockpit door flickered on. There was a map of the Southwest on the screen, and as we talked, the words "ETA: 1 hour, 52 minutes" appeared on the screen.

"Well, there you go, then," I said.

I woke up as the plane landed. I wasn't even aware I'd fallen asleep. You know that feeling you get when you're dozing off, when your brain goes all nonlinear and all these odd, random thoughts start appearing in your head? Yeah, I didn't have that. Not a bit. This was more like being knocked out -- a hard, brutal awakening with no memory of being hit in the first place. It was like when that rig exploded, except I didn't wake up with a snapped spine this time.

Felt like it, though. The chairs on the Gulfstream were great, but my back had taken a beating over the last couple of days. I realized that I was probably facing a couple of months of physical therapy when and if I made it back home to Los Angeles. I hate physical therapy.

The plane taxied to a stop, and the door opened on its own again. As the stairs descended from the open door, I pulled myself out of the chair, stretched my back as best I could, and headed down to the pavement. I could hear Laura behind me. She wasn't moving terribly fast, either, not that I could blame her. The last week or so couldn't have been easy for her, especially since she normally worked a desk job. Hell, they'd been rough for me, and my job regularly consists of running, jumping, shooting -- like a human Super Mario, only without the greasy mustache, red overalls, or plumbing acumen.

A dark blue Plymouth Reliant was waiting for us, and a young guy in an Air Force uniform was standing outside. He looked about 14 or 15 years old.

"Jacob Harris?" the kid asked, yelling over the noise of the Gulfstream's engines.

"Yeah!"

"I'm Airman Mendez. Captain Black asked me to take you and Miss Mills wherever you need to go, sir."

"Talk to the lady, Mendez. She's running the show," I said as I opened the Reliant's back door and crammed myself in behind the driver's seat.

"Where are we going, Miss?" Mendez asked.

"Downtown. Pearl and San Jacinto. Know it?"

"The City Center, sure."

"Don't rush. We have plenty of time," Laura said.

"How do you figure?" I asked as Mendez drove us out of the small airport.

"It's night. No way they're going to set off the bomb at night," she told me. "Not enough casualties."

"She's right, sir," Mendez said. "It's past close of business. Downtown is dead right now, save a couple of folks out to nice dinners."

"That's fucked up," I said, shaking my head.

"Oh, you want to hear fucked up? Wanna know why they choose downtown areas instead of, say, residential ones?"

"Like you said, more casualties, right?"

"That's kind of it. But why not set it off in a neighborhood?"

It wasn't me who answered. It was Mendez.

"High-rise buildings."

Laura nodded.

"Exactly. It's a small device, a tactical nuclear weapon. Set it off in a neighborhood, you take out maybe a kilometer or so. You take out the same area downtown, but you kill a whole lot more people when the buildings just outside the blast zone start falling down."

"You mean... all of the people in the high-rises are dead," I guessed.

"Well, yeah. And all the people that the rubble falls on, well... they're having a really bad day, too. And optimal placement ensures a domino effect -- buildings fall into other buildings, knocking those down, too. Devastation and death combined."

"And you designed this blast?"

"In what I thought was an academic exercise, one to prevent terrorism. Not as a blueprint for terrorism."

I couldn't think of anything to say to that. Sure, a big part of me wanted to condemn her for her part in a plot that could kill ultimately millions of people (provided her "provoke a war with China" story was true), but I could see how something like this could happen. As far as she knew, after all, she was just doing her job. How was she supposed to know that elements in her company would use her work to attack a friendly city? Besides, if we couldn't prevent the bomb from going off, I expect I wouldn't need to condemn her. She'd be doing it quite effectively herself for the rest of her life.

As he drove, Mendez pulled out a slick-looking Nokia cell phone and started dialing a number into its lit-up keypad.

"Who are you calling?" I asked.

"Buddy of mine in DPD," he said over his shoulder. "We'll need someone to get us into City Center. It's closed this time of night."

"Police?" Laura asked. She looked worried.

"Yeah. But don't worry. Andrea's cool. And she knows what's up. You're not getting arrested, promise."

Mendez wasn't on the phone long. He talked like most guys I know -- get out the required information and hang up. That's why our cell bills stay manageable, I suppose. I had a girlfriend who was always complaining about the size of her bill, but you should have seen her just bullshitting on the phone for hours. Somehow, she never connected the two.

When we arrived at City Center, a Dallas Police black-and-white was waiting outside, with a young, female Hispanic officer leaning against the hood. As we approached, she gave Mendez a wave.

"Hey, Miguel," the young cop said as we got out of the car. "More shit you're not allowed to tell me about?"

"Afraid so," Mendez said. "Gotta check the building for some missing property. This lady and gentleman here will be conducting the search -- all you and me have to do is stand around and collect our paychecks."

"That's what I was doing before you got here," the cop grumbled. As we got closer, I saw her name tag -- Rodriguez.

"Thanks for coming out to help tonight, Officer Rodriguez," I said, smiling and forgetting that I was all busted up.

"Jesus Christ, kid. Looks like someone used your face for soccer practice," Rodriguez said, shaking her head and reaching for the radio extender on her shoulder. "One Fourteen."

"Go ahead, One Fourteen," a dispatcher's voice crackled over the radio.

"Advise property owner at City Center I'm conducting a search of the building as arranged."

"Copy."

"After you," Rodriguez said, indicating the door.

I moved to open the door... and that's when the explosion happened.

Chapter Sixteen

2011-08-22T23:20:00.001-07:00

Laura wanted to look around the complex more, but I knew it was pointless. Tracking scumbags over the past couple of years had taught me a couple of things, and one of them was to recognize when a place had been cleaned out. When a guy was about to run, he went to his place and took what he thought he couldn't live without. As I looked around the lab, I realized that was what had happened here. Tools had been left, but documents and the bomb, gone.

"They might have left some clue where they were going," Laura protested after I suggest we leave.

"You know where they were going. One in ten shot," I said. "This neighborhood's crap, but the security guards have definitely called the police. We don't have long before we have a lot of explaining to do."

Reluctantly, she followed me back out to the car. I turned the key in the ignition, but nothing happened. A quick check revealed one of the guards' wild shots had cracked into the engine. Fluids had emptied themselves all over the pavement.

"Gonna have to leave it," I said.

"The cops will track Quentin down," she said as she got out of the car.

"We can slow that down a bit," I told her.

I lit one of the Molotovs and chucked it into the car with the rest. By the time we'd cleared the fence out onto the street, the car was burned down to the frame.

That left us on foot in a neighborhood that even the most charitable of real-estate agents would consider "undesirable," or "hellish." Calling for a cab wouldn't work -- they wouldn't come to that part of town, and even if they did, waiting on one would just leave us out in the open to get shot at, robbed, or worse. We needed transport out of there, and we needed it yesterday.

I learned everything you could ever need to know about cars during my stunt driving courses, except, of course, how to hotwire one. I knew I could get us into a car without a problem, but getting it started? No clue. I was running through the possibilities in my brain as Laura and I walked as fast as we could away from the burning mess we'd left.

"You wouldn't happen to know how to hotwire a car, would you?" I asked. I was kidding, of course.

"Yeah," she said.

"Seriously?"

"I'm an engineer, Jake. Hotwiring a mid-80s car is like... well, like something really easy you do. I don't know. Ripping phonebooks in half?"

We found a 1982 Ford F-150 about a block from the complex. The window was cracked, so I had it unlocked in about ten seconds. Laura crawled into the driver's seat and started messing around under the steering column.

"Hey, y'all stealing that truck!" a young black guy, maybe 20, covered in tattoos and dreadlocks, yelled from across the street.

I pulled out the shotgun and aimed it at him. It wasn't like I could hit him from across the street with it, but I had no intention of firing. It was just a big, fuck-you looking gun, and it got the message across quite nicely.

"Not that I got a problem with that," he yelled, his face splitting into the widest, whitest grin I've even seen.

It took about thirty more seconds, but Laura got the truck started. She situated herself in the driver's seat, and I climbed in through the passenger door. She had the pedal floored almost before I got my door closed.

"Jesus, kid, slow down."

"You said we needed to get out of here fast."

"And we do. But keep it somewhere near the speed limit, yeah? We are driving a stolen truck, after all, and I know you have warrants. I probably do by now, too. We get pulled over now, we're done."

She nodded and laid off the accelerator, letting the truck drop down to 35 miles an hour. The engine didn't sound good, and forcing it up to 55 almost immediately probably hadn't done it any favors, but we didn't need it to get us far. Just...

It was at that point I realized I had no idea where we should go next. The Strip would be my first choice, if for no other reason than we could probably blend in with the crowd while we figured out our next move. But, really, we had no base of operations anymore, nowhere we could sit and talk this out. While I considered what to do, I pulled out my cell phone. Might as well call Quentin and let him know his truck was gone.

"I wouldn't," Laura said, looking at me out of the corner of her eye. "You can bet they have your number by now, and any idiot with a police scanner can pick up cell conversations."

She was right, of course. I didn't want to admit that to her, though -- for a good-looking chick, she certainly knew how to get on my nerves. I just put the cell back in my pocket.

"I'll stop if I see a pay phone. This thing's almost out of gas anyway."

We stopped at a gas station that wasn't on the Strip, but well within view of the Stratosphere, so we had to be somewhere close. There were still bars over all of the windows, so we weren't out of the ghetto just yet, but if you've never been to Las Vegas... well, most of it is the ghetto. I think we were in a *better* ghetto, anyway.

There were two pay phones on the outside of the building, but only one of them had the handset still attached. The other one had been ripped off in an apparent fit of Hulk-smash rage, if the remains of the phone itself were any indictation. The keypad looked like it had been punched squarely in the center by a massive, powerful fist. As Laura went inside to kick the guy behind the counter a couple of bucks for gas, I picked up the reciever on the un-Hulked phone. There was a dial tone, so I dropped in a quarter and dialed the Monte Carlo. I asked for Ken Adams.

Quentin took the news about his truck better than I would have expected, but he explained that the vehicle wasn't *technically* his anyway. I asked if it was stolen, and he told me he'd rather not say. I was going to push a little on that point until I realized I'd rather not know.

"You hear anything on the radios after we left?" I asked.

"A bit of chatter about moving to another location. Something in code, Staging Area November. It's been quiet for the last hour or so, though."

"All right, man. Thanks. You can probably roll out of there whenever you feel like it -- I think Umbra's burned right on out of here."

Laura was putting gas in the truck when I finished talking to Quentin. After a moment's thought, I put another quarter in the phone and dialed Jason Black's number.

It rang only once this time, and Jason Black picked up instead of his... I don't know, intermediary? Secretary just doesn't sound right. Anyway, it was him that answered.

"Go for Black," he said.

"Jason, hi. It's --"

"Jake Harris. Assault not go like you thought, Jake?"

Shit. He knew I was out there doing stuff I shouldn't, and he was in the employ of the Federal Government. Part of me wanted to hang up the phone right then, but I stayed on the line. I'm glad I did.

"They moved the package."

"And by package, you mean..."

"I think you know what I mean."

"I really don't. Though I'm guessing it has something to do with Umbra Dynamics, doesn't it?"

"You know them?"

"They're a major defense contractor, Jake. I really hope you aren't trying to supplement your income by stealing government research."

"Umbra is dirty, Jason. I've got evidence they're planning something, something very bad."

"You know what you sound like, Jake? You sound like a conspiracy nut. Tell me why I shouldn't scramble the FBI to hunt you down and put you in a nice, padded room where the big, mean companies can't read your thoughts through your TV."

I was stuck. If I told him, would he believe me? More importantly, could he help in any way? I figured it really didn't matter. If I told him and he didn't buy it, or if I just didn't tell him, the results would be the same -- the FBI and probably military intelligence would join the police and Umbra in hunting me and Laura.

So I took a shot. I told him what I knew.

It didn't take me but a minute to explain it all. The last few days had been hellish, and probably the most active of my adult life, but when I boiled it down to the essentials, it didn't sound like much. Still, even though it probably took only about 60 seconds to explain, Laura was making the "hurry up" gesture over by the truck. I waved her off.

Black was silent for almost as long as it had taken me to tell the story. I was beginning to think there was something wrong with the line, or that he'd hung up and the dial tone just wasn't happening for some reason, but he finally spoke.

"That's some pretty heavy shit you're accusing them of."

"I have one of their lead scientists backing it all up. And I believe her."

"And if I was to believe this -- not saying I do, but if I did -- what is it you need from me?"

Fair question, I suppose.

"I've figured out that you're not just an Air Force desk jockey, or a PR guy who goes out to movie sets to make sure someone doesn't call an F-16 an F-15. You're deep in. I was hoping you could... I don't know. Find some way to help me figure out where they're going. The scientist gave me a list of potential targets."

"Judging by the area code, you're still in Vegas. You know a place called the Debbie Reynolds?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Good. Meet me there at sundown. Check into a room under my name. They won't ask for ID."

* * *

The Debbie Reynolds Casino Hotel was definitely on the way out. First, I had no clue who Debbie Reynolds even was, and, by the lack of people in the building when Laura and I walked in, neither did anyone else. The place was, charitably, a dump. But the bored-looking middle-aged lady at the front desk didn't bat an eyelash when I said my name was Jason Black -- she just slid a key across the table without a word.

Laura and I went up to the room, and I sprawled out on the bed. My head had started hurting again, and I really wanted nothing more than to go to sleep. Maybe if I was lucky, I'd wake up in my apartment with Eammon banging on the door about the rent, and find out everything in the past three days had just been a nice, nonsensical dream after one too many rum and cokes down at the Viper Room.

Turned out that wasn't the case, of course. I got about ten minutes to lay down. Then the phone on the rickety table by the bed rang. I picked up the receiver and held it to my aching skull.

"Yello?" I managed to mumble.

"OK. Not saying I believe you, yet, but I did some checking. Meet me downstairs in the hotel bar," Jason Black said.

Before I could say anything else, he hung up the phone.

"Want a drink?" I asked Laura, rolling off the bed and stretching my shoulders as far back as they would go, trying in vain to knock some of the knots out of my back.

"More than you would believe," she said.

Chapter Fifteen

2011-08-10T22:53:00.000-07:00

Finding a liquor store in Las Vegas isn't much of a challenge. Basically, you can just head in any direction and you'll be at one in a couple of minutes. And the stuff I was looking for wasn't rare or expensive, so I wasn't exactly picky. Still, though I didn't so much care where I ended up, I know I could have done better than Fredo's Discount Liquors.

The bars on the windows weren't a great sign, nor was the armed, overweight security guard padding around out front. In my experience, fat security guards are way more dangerous than the overmuscled, jock types. The fat ones are less likely to chase you and more likely just to open fire. This guy definitely had that look about him, that hard, unfocused glare that he cast over Laura and I as we got out of the car.

"Nice place," Laura muttered.

"Yeah, it was highly recommended by the Las Vegas Convention and Visitor's Bureau."

My head was still killing me, but by now, it wasn't anything a couple hundred Advil wouldn't cure. I was pretty sure I had a concussion -- I've had them before -- but it wasn't severe. I was banged up, sure, but I'd still be able to carry the plan through.

We left Fredo's Discount Liquors a few minutes later with five bottles of Bacardi 151, all they currently had on the shevles. Apparently, according to the talkative guy at the register, they'd just opened the last case before we'd come in. An on-duty cop had bought the first bottle. That was comforting.

Laura was a little suspicious of me buying what was essentially a metric fuckton of booze, and it probably didn't help her confidence any that the next place I stopped the car was a dumpster. I rooted around until I found a half-dozen empty glass bottles, then found what looked like a very stained hotel pillowcase. I put the bottles in the pillowcase and came back to the car.

"So now we're rooting for junk?"

"Jesus, Laura. Did you grow up in a complete cultural void, or what?"

"I don't follow."

"You never watched any action movies when you were a kid?"

"I was studying when I was a kid."

"Ah. You were a nerd. Then riddle me this -- what happens when you fill a bottle half-full of something flammable, then stuff a rag down the mouth and light it?"

"Molotov cocktails?"

"Exactly. And Bacardi 151 is more flammable than gasoline. Even comes with a little flame supressor on the bottle to keep it from spontaneously combusting when you pour it. What, did you think the plan involved getting blackout drunk or something?"

She didn't say anything, but I could tell from her expression that was exactly what she'd been thinking. She really didn't give me much credit, and my performance thus far probably hadn't merited a whole lot of respect. That was fine, though. When this was over, she'd probably still underestimate me, and I'd use that to my advantage to get her back to Los Angeles and turn her in.

"You sure you can handle those? I've heard those things can go bad in a hurry," Laura said as I climbed back into the truck.

"Yeah. I'm fire certified," I told her.

"That a big thing in the bounty-hunter world?"

"I used to be in entertainment. Stunt performer. I've been lit on fire by one of these before."

"Under controlled conditions, of course."

"Well, yeah. But I don't plan on getting lit on fire this time."

"And just what is the plan? I'm a little vague on that."

That was intentional, of course. I'd only shared the broad strokes of the plan back in the hotel room, mainly because I wasn't sure I could trust her. I wasn't sure I could trust her because I didn't believe her 100 percent, but that had changed after Roth kicked the fuck out of me. So I knew I had to trust her now, even if she had been acting cynical and, let's be honest, like a bit of a bitch.

"The plan is... well, we roll up hard on the complex. Go right through the front gate. When the security car comes after us, that's where the first couple of Molotovs come in," I started.

"Oh. I really don't like this plan," she grumbled.

"Wait. It gets better. You're going to be driving -- unless, of course, you want to be throwing Molotovs -- so you're going to take us right up to where they're keeping the bomb."

"It could only be in two places, and one's much more likely than the other," she said.

"Good. Now, how heavy is it, would you say?"

"About 70, 75 pounds."

"I can do that. We grab it, put it in the truck, and get the fuck out of there. Then you disassemble it and we scatter the parts to the four winds."

"And when they start shooting?"

I nodded towards the duffel in the back seat, the one that held all of our guns.

"We shoot back."

I sounded confident, but that was, of course, a lie. I would really rather have just forgotten I knew anything and gone back to Los Angeles, stick my head under a pillow and pretend I dreamt the whole thing. But I knew I couldn't do that -- I knew I had to do this thing. There was no way I could live with myself if I saw a mushroom cloud on the news one day and knew that I could have stopped it.

Laura helped me make the Molotovs. It wasn't exactly rocket science, but it went faster with both of us working on it. A few minutes later, we were ready to roll. Laura assured me she knew how to handle a gun, so I gave her Meskiyev's pistol. She started up the engine, and we were on our way.

It's hard to really put into words the feeling I had as we cruised into North Las Vegas. I mean, sure. There was fear, obviously. But more than that, there was a sense of... well, just of not wanting to do any of this. We were rolling into a heavily armed compound with guns and homemade explosives, which isn't something I'd want to do on any day, ever. And we stood a very good chance of getting killed, also something I didn't want to do. But worse yet, I would probably have to kill someone, and I really didn't want to do that.

I'd never killed anyone before. Oh, sure, I'd shot people, but they'd never died from it. And I'd messed some dudes up pretty badly. Once, I was serving a warrant in Silver Lake, and the dude charged out of his house like a coked-up rhino with a shotgun. He was ready as hell to kill me, and I would have been well within my rights to kill him at that point, but I didn't. It was the closest I've ever come to killing someone, but I emptied a clip into his legs and put one in his shoulder, one in the side of his neck. The guy survived.

Now... well, someone was going to die, and I had to make sure it wasn't going to be me.

It seemed to take less time to reach Umbra's compound this time around, but that was probably just my perception, not reality. Traffic thinned out right on schedule, and before I knew it, we were deep in the ghetto again. I could see the fence coming up, and I opened the Pathfinder's sunroof.

"Gun it right through the gate," I said as I grabbed two of the Molotovs in one hand and my lighter in the other.

I heard the engine rev as I took off my seat belt and stood. Laura missed a gear, and when it caught, I almost dropped one of the Molotovs all over the front of the car, but I managed to save it. The jolt from the missed gear was worse than the one when Laura crashed through the fence, and that one, I was ready for. Laura sped us toward the buildings, and my head was on a swivel for the security car.

It came, all right, fishtailing around the corner and rocketing through the hole we'd made in the gate. I waited until it got within about fifty feet, then lit both Molotovs and rocketed them, one after the other, right at the security car's windshield. The first one went high, tumbling end-over-end just over the roof and smashing on the concrete behind the car. The second one, though, slammed right into the spot where the hood met the windshield, exploding in a perfect fireball that washed over the entire windshield.

Crazily, the security car's windshield wipers came on. It was as if the driver was trying to wipe the fire off the glass like rain. I chuckled in spite of myself, but it didn't last long. As the wipers melted to the burning glass, the security car slammed on its brakes, and both doors opened. Out came two security guards.

They were fat, both of them, which in my experience meant they were about to start shooting. I already had another lit Molotov in my hand, and I chucked it in their general direction before reaching into my coat and pulling out my Sig. The two guards broke to either side of the car to avoid the new firebomb, but quickly had their guns in their hands. They fired on us, but I fired back. I caught one of them in the hip, the other in the arm. They kept firing, but their shots weren't coming anywhere near us now.

Laura slammed on the brakes, spinning the Pathfinder so that the driver's door was next to the building. I dropped back down through the sunroof and followed her out the driver's side, grabbing the bag with the guns and Molotovs inside as I went. She entered a security code on the keypad by the door, but the lights above the pad stayed red.

"They changed the codes," she said. There was a hint of panic in her voice.

"Don't worry. Those guys will run out of ammo soon," I told her.

I pulled Quentin's pump-action out of the bag and motioned for Laura to get clear of the door. With two slugs, I obliterated the hinges -- not a great design, that -- and the door fell open. Laura dashed inside the darkened building, and I followed.

"Where are we headed?" I asked.

"There's a lab on the second floor. Be ready to shoot -- there's going to be security between us and the lab."

There wasn't, though. We made it up the stairs and down a long hallway without seeing a soul. I used the shotgun as a masterkey again, opening the lab door with a combination of slugs and kicks from my right boot. Laura flipped on the lights inside, and the only thing I saw was a long, empty metal table.

"Um..." I said.

"Must be in the other lab, in the other building."

We encountered no resistance on the way to the second lab, either. In fact, apart from the now-quiet security guards, we'd seen no one since we got into the complex.

"Something doesn't seem right here," I told Laura as she led me to the second lab, this one on the third floor of the next building over.

"I expected this to be tougher, too."

The second lab was also empty. Laura tore around the inside of the lab, opening cabinets and drawers, as if someone had stashed a 75-pound nuclear device in their desk.

"It's gone," she said.

"Yeah, I can see that."

Chapter Fourteen

2011-07-30T23:15:00.000-07:00

I wasn't sure at first how long I slept -- only that it was still daylight out when I opened my eyes. I'd pretty much passed out where I'd fallen, stretched out on the couch in the living-room area of Quentin's suite. Though they were trying to be quiet -- nice of them, really -- I could hear Quentin and Laura arguing in the next room.

"He can handle it," Quentin was saying.

"Look, he's a big guy. But so far, you and he have just kind of been stumbling through this. I mean, he had to call somebody to ask how to get into the complex."

"You've never seen dude in a fight. He's got this."

"He's got what?" I asked, walking into the bedroom and stretching out my arms.

"Quentin seems to think you can punch your way out of the building," Laura said, sneering. It wasn't a good look on her.

"Q? What've you got?"

Quentin shuffled off the bed and walked over to the desk on the other side of the room, motioning for me to follow him. He was up and moving now -- not quickly, but moving -- so I figured that was a good sign. As I walked up to the desk, he gestured down at a piece of paper. There was a sketch of the building floorplan on it, with several spots marked with X's.

"Here's what we have so far. We've gotten seventeen separate signals, seventeen different guys watching the exits and common areas," Quentin told me.

"Jesus. This is pretty detailed. How long have I been out?"

"Couple of hours. Now, here... it's not exactly a hole, but it's the weakest point in their network. One guy, guarding the back entrance for the valets. You get past him, you get outside."

"One guy. I can do that."

"See?" Quentin said, winking at Laura. "Told you."

"Yeah. Now tell him the rest."

Quentin sighed and ran his hands through his hair. He shot Laura a glare, then turned back to me.

"Laura here thinks it isn't a weak spot at all. Says she knows the guy they put there."

"His name is Eric Roth, and he's former Israeli Special Forces," Laura said, returning Quentin's glare. "There's no way you'll be able to beat him in a fight. He's the one who teaches all of the combat classes for Umbra Security."

"He's still just one guy," I told her, emptying out one of Quentin's duffel bags and putting the shotgun and pistols inside. "And it's not like I've never been in a fight before."

"Look, you seem OK. Both of you do. But you do not want to underestimate this guy. I've seen him take a loaded gun out of someone's hand and knock them out before they even knew what was happening," Laura told us.

"I can handle it. Besides, have you got another way out of here?"

After a long moment, she shook her head.

"That's what I thought."

"Stairway down to the valet entrance shows clear," Quentin said, tracing the route from our room down to the back stairway on the diagram with his finger. "Once you get there and take out this Roth guy, you'll have to cut back around the building to catch a cab or a shuttle."

"Right. We should probably walk down a couple of blocks off-Strip, minimize any chance of being seen by the guys up front," I said, zipping up the duffel and hoisting it on my shoulder. "Laura, you ready?"

"I guess," she said with a sigh.

"Enthusiasm. I like it."

The back stairway was, indeed, clear, and we made it down to ground level without incident. As I cleared the door out into the valet area, I could see Roth -- a guy about my size, dressed in the same black suit as all of his other Umbra Security pals. I crept up behind him and wrapped my left arm quickly around his throat, pulling it tight with my right. A couple of seconds later, Roth slumped to the floor.

"See? Told you I had this," I said, turning to Laura.

And that's when I lost two teeth.

The move I used on Roth was called a rear naked choke, and it usually put most motherfuckers to sleep in a matter of seconds. Not Roth, though, if the massive overhand right that crashed into my jaw and popped out two molars was any indication. Either he'd only gone out for a second or two, or he'd figured out what I was doing and gone limp, pretended to pass out before he actually did. Either way, I was dealing with a pissed-off ex-Israeli commando, and I was in way over my head.

I don't know how I managed to stay standing after that mule-kick right hand hit me, but I did. My vision was interlaced with angry red and yellow spots, but I saw Roth go for his coat, no doubt for a gun inside, and I managed to lurch my big stupid frame in his direction, plowing into him with all the skill and dignity of a stroke victim. Dumb luck was on my side tonight, though -- my shoulder slammed into his elbow, pinning his right arm against his torso and his back against the wall. He had his hand on his gun, but he couldn't pull it out. I could see that from my vantage point, what with my head nearly inside his jacket and all.

From there, though, I was stuck. As long as I kept pressure on him, he couldn't pull his gun, but he could throw any manner of knees and elbows into plenty of hurty spots on my body. I could do essentially nothing from where I was, with my right elbow smashed into his midsection and my left arm too low to even grab at anything except...

There are things you tell yourself you're never going to do in a fight, things that are just off-limits even when you're fighting for your life. But then, one day you've got an Israeli commando pinned up against a wall in a back corridor of a Vegas hotel, and he's raining down hell on the back of your head with his left elbow, and all of your notions of fighting fair go out the window.

And you grab a handful of that guy's junk and you pull and twist and crush with every ounce of strength you have in the left side of your body.

Roth must've been trained to handle pain, because he kept fighting a lot longer than I would have. For a couple of seconds, he seemed almost unaffected by the damage I was doing, still throwing elbows into the back of my skull. But I noticed his strikes weakening, and I pressed further, bending my legs and picking him up over my shoulders, my left hand still firmly crushing his boys. I ratcheted my back and threw him forward, bouncing him off the wall. As he hit the floor, his gun fell out of his hand, and I kicked him as hard as I could in the face.

He was out this time, I was sure of it. I waited several seconds, panting and trying to blink the spots and black edges out of my vision. He didn't get up, but I could see he was still breathing. Good. I didn't want to kill him, or anyone if I could avoid it.

"That was... well, that was about the most awful thing I've seen in my life," Laura said flatly from behind me.

"Let's go," I panted, grabbing Roth's gun and shoving it into my jacket.

As soon as we were out on the street, the heat hit me. It wasn't even that bad yet, in the mid-90s, but with the beating I'd just taken... well, it wasn't pretty. I vomited almost instantly, the two molars Roth had knocked out spilling out with a fair amount of puke onto the pavement. As I coughed out the last bit of blood and bile, my head started to spin.

"Man. It just keeps getting better with you, doesn't it?" Laura said, shaking her head. "You all right?"

"I'll live."

"Well, you don't look like it. We should probably get you cleaned up. No self-respecting shuttle driver will let you on looking like that."

"This is Vegas. Self-respect is pretty much only theory here," I said, digging through my pockets for something to wipe my face with. Finding nothing, I used the back of my left hand to wipe my face. It came away slick with blood. I checked -- my nose was bleeding pretty badly. Possibly broken.

"You're kind of pale. Can you walk?"

My legs didn't feel too solid underneath me, and I suddenly became aware that my back was killing me. Tossing Roth hadn't done my spine any favors. Still, I was putting one foot in front of the other without falling down, so that was something.

"Looks like it. Let's move. We'll get a few blocks down and try to flag down a ride."

"If you make it that far," Laura grumbled, hooking her arm under mine and marching me down the alleyway.

After a few blocks, Laura told me to stay put for a second and vanished off to the Strip. She came back a few moments later with a garish yellow plastic bag that read "Las Vegas' *Only* Souvenir Shop" across the front. I knew the bag was lying to me, and I realized I was a little punch-drunk when I started giggling at the bag.

Laura shook her head and pulled out a white "I Love Las Vegas" T-shirt, which she handed to me.

"It's a medium," I said. "No way that's gonna fit me."

"It's not to wear. It's to mop up some the Niagra Blood Falls you're working with there."

Of course it was. I felt a little stupid, but I used the T-shirt to towel away as much of the blood and leftover vomit as I could. The shirt came away red, and I realized that wasn't a great sign.

"Is my nose broken?" I asked Laura.

"I don't know. Maybe. It's pretty swollen. And your eyes are turning black like you got punched in both of them."

I nodded, which caused more dizziness than nodding ever should.

"Yeah, that's broken. Eh. I wasn't pretty anyway."

She dug into the bag and brought out another shirt, this one light brown. It had a skull in a top hat on the front, with the words "Las Vegas" in Gothic script across the bottom.

"I guessed on the size. XL?"

"It'll be a little tight, but..."

I took off the leather jacket and discarded my plain black T-shirt. I put on the new shirt, which actually fit OK, then put the jacket back on.

"OK. You still look awful, but at least you're not covered in blood anymore. There's a shuttle stop just up the street. Let's get moving."

The hot air wasn't doing me any favors, but I kept up with Laura as she bounded up the street. A shuttle bus with "MacCarran Airport" on the front was just pulling up to the stop, and Laura flagged it down. The door opened, and she got on. I followed.

"$20," the bus driver said, smiling and showing nicotine-stained teeth.

I pulled one of the many twenties Quentin had given me out of my jacket pocket and handed it to him.

"You don't look so good, brother. You all right?" the bus driver said, one eyebrow arched almost into his baseball cap.

"Yeah. King of the Cage," I said, surprised by how quickly the lie popped into my head.

"Yeah, I heard of that. New kinda streetfighting thing in the octagon, right? You a fighter?"

"Working on it," I said, forcing a smile and eyeing an empty seat. Sitting down was pretty much all I wanted to do, as I was starting to get dizzy again.

"I got a cousin who does that. Y'all are some crazy motherfuckers, man."

"Heh. Yeah."

"All right. Find a seat and we'll get you headed for the airport."

I collapsed into a chair in the second row, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath through my mouth.

The next thing I knew, Laura was shaking me awake.

"We're here," she said. "Get up."

It's amazing how much good a fifteen-minute cat nap can do for you. I was much more solid on my feet as Laura and I got off the bus, and didn't feel near as dizzy as we walked through the parking garage looking for Quentin's SUV. Of course, getting into his car wasn't my original plan in going to the airport.

See, as soon as Quentin had mentioned his vehicle was at MacCarran, a new plan formed in my head, one that had nothing to do with assaulting the Umbra facility in an insane attempt to snatch a nuclear bomb. I knew I'd have to do something about that, maybe tell the FBI or something, but I wasn't going to do anything about it. My new plan was to get Laura to the airport, slap the cuffs on her, and get her on a plane to Los Angeles. Then I'd collect my money, tell someone about the nuke, and go back to living my normal life.

Quentin would be OK on his own. All he'd have to do is wait a day or two for the heat to die down, then go get his car and come on back home. He'd seemed to be rapidly getting better, and the fact that he hadn't died already meant he probably wasn't bleeding internally. I'd give him a call when I had Laura safely turned over to the LAPD and break him off some of the bounty as a thank you for all his help.

But somewhere along the way -- and maybe this was the concussion (or the multiple concussions) talking, I realized I had to do something about the bomb. I hadn't really believed Laura until after the fight with Roth. If that guy was fighting as hard as he was to keep me from getting out, then it must have been a real threat. And if there really was a functional nuclear bomb in North Las Vegas, I couldn't afford to waste any time.

So instead of slapping the handcuffs on Laura and hauling her into the terminal, we found Quentin's car and started it up.

"OK," she asked, unaware that I'd been ready to turn her in until just a few minutes ago. "What's the first stop?"

"The liquor store, of course," I told her, winking.

Chapter Thirteen

2011-07-21T21:57:00.000-07:00

Look, I'm a realist.

I knew I was lucky to have gone up against a guy like Meskhiyev three times without getting killed. I knew I was lucky the police hadn't caught up with me yet and thrown my ass in jail for any number of reasons. But I knew my limits, and I knew when I was out of my league -- which was over 48 hours ago, for anyone who was counting.

In over my head. It was quickly becoming my mantra. There was no way I could just assault a building crawling with security and snag a damn nuclear bomb out of there. I couldn't sneak in, either -- assaults and infiltrations weren't part of my skillset. Need someone to drive a car through a flaming building? Need a dumbass bail-jumper tracked down? I'm your guy. Need someone to go all one-man-army against a fortified building filled with an ex-military private security force? You're thinking of Rambo.

But right about then, I had a thought -- how would I handle this if it was a stunt?

Well, first off, I'd have a serious discussion with the guy who wrote this script, because this was an unrealistic scenario for a single guy to survive. But, barring that... well, I'd work the stunt out with the show's stunt coordinator. I'd get expert help.

And I know a guy who just might be able to help me out. I hadn't talked to him in years, but when I'd last talked to him, he'd told me to call if I ever needed anything. I was hoping he hadn't just been bullshitting. I didn't have his number on me, but it was in my files back at the office.

So I called Mike and asked him to look up Jason Black's number for me.

It took about an hour -- Mike had to go down to the office, after all -- but he called me back with the number.

"You realize it's, like, 6:00 in the morning, right?" Mike asked.

"Yeah. He's a military guy, right? He's probably up this early."

"Just do me a favor and don't burn any bridges, OK? That guy throws a lot of business our way."

I didn't know how Jason Black could be giving us business -- near as I knew, he was a military consultant on film sets. At least, that's how I met him. But I wasn't going to argue with Mike. He'd just done me a solid, and I could tell by his tone of voice he wasn't too happy about it. Could be that I woke him up early. Or it could be that he was still looking over his shoulder for an Umbra guy to put a bullet in his eye.

Yeah, I owed that guy one.

I jotted down Black's number on the notepad on the bedside table. It was a Nevada area code, I noticed. I thought he lived in Hollywood. I wondered if he would local -- that would be a big help. I dialed the number and hoped.

"HT-117," a female voice answered on the first ring.

"Uh, I'm looking for Jason Black? Uh, Captain Jason Black?"

"I'm sorry, sir. I don't know anyone by that name. Perhaps you dialed incorrectly," the woman said.

"Oh, uh, sorry about --" I started, but she'd already hung up.

I checked the phone number and started to dial again when my phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Jacob Harris. We met on the Delta Commando set, right?" a deep male voice said without the courtesy of a hello.

"Captain Black?"

"Call me Jason. What's up?"

"I just tried to call you."

"Yeah, you must have dialed incorrectly," he said, but there was a chuckle in his voice. "So what's going on?"

"I've got some consulting work, if you're interested. Should only take a couple of minutes."

"Oh, you're back into the movie business? I heard you were running down scumbags."

"Writing a script. Kinda, you know, in my off time. I'm in Vegas doing research."

"Ah. Cool, then," Black said. I could still hear the chuckle in his voice. "So, uh, I'm not really in the consulting business. That was just a one-time thing when you met me, favor for a buddy. But if it's only going to take a couple of minutes..."

"Yeah. Hey, if you're local to Vegas, I could meet you for a drink, talk it out."

"I was there last week, but I'm kind of way out of town right now. Can we just do it over the phone?"

"Yeah, sure."

So I laid out the situation -- assault on a covered, fenced, protected building. Corporate security and rent-a-cops. Cameras, patrols, and plenty of firepower.

"Right. And how many... characters... are you rolling with?"

"One."

"Armed?"

"Two pistols. A shotgun. A really thick skull."

"You're playing the lead role, then."

"Yeah."

"Look, I don't want to tell you how to... write your movie. But if you can get even one other person in the scene, it would help your chances a lot. Just someone to watch your character's back. More realistic that way."

"Right on. I can do that."

Jason Black laid out the perfect plan of attack, a broad-daylight raid that seemed so insane it almost had to work. I just listened and jotted down notes.

"Hey, thanks, man. I really appreciate it."

"No problem, man. Don't get yourself killed. Call me if you take down the building," Black said, chuckling and hanging up the phone.

After I hung up, I took a long look at my notes. Black's plan wasn't bad -- it was great, in fact. Better than anything any one of us could have come up with. But it came with a long list of things we'd need that we didn't have.

The first problem would be just getting out of that damn hotel room. Umbra knew we were in the hotel, and they'd have people watching every exit. It would be damn near impossible to get past them, as they were all trained by a former KGB agent. So that was one big problem right there.

Next was transportation. My car was still -- well, probably -- back at the Imperial Palace, but either Umbra, the police, or both would have eyes on it. None of us could go get it. If I went, I'd either get killed by one of Meskhiyev's people or detained for questioning by the police. Laura had warrants that I'm sure were in the LVPD system right now, and they'd even snatch up Quentin as a person of interest. And Umbra security knew all of our faces now, so even if the cops didn't get us, Meskhiyev's goon squad sure would.

Laura's car was out, too. It was at Caesar's, and we already knew Umbra knew about that one. They'd surely have at least one guy on it.

"Quentin," I said after a moment. "What did you drive here? That rusted-out Chevy in your driveway?"

Quentin started off laughing, but ended up in a coughing fit. As he finally got himself together, he just shook his head.

"Shit no, man. That thing was there when I moved in. I took my car. Pathfinder."

"Is it here in the hotel?"

"Nah. Stashed it at the airport, long-term parking. Always do."

I shook my head. Quentin's paranoia never ceased to amaze me, but it was probably that paranoia that had helped us out the most so far.

"All right. We're going to have to catch a shuttle to the airport somehow. And I'll need you to watch my back. You ready, Q?"

Quentin struggled to sit up.

"Yeah, man. I got your back."

Laura just shook her head.

"Seriously? The guy can't even stand up. He's got broken ribs, a cracked sternum, maybe even internal bleeding. He needs to go to a hospital, not on some crazy-ass raid."

"Who, then? You?" I asked.

"I'm the only other one here."

I wasn't wild about Laura backing me up. It wasn't because she was a woman -- OK, total honesty, that was part of it. It was that she was a scientist, not a fighter. I mean, Quentin wasn't exactly a fighter, either, but he was crazy. Crazy often went a long way toward keeping someone alive.

When I was doing stunts, I had to take a bunch of fight training. Nothing makes a movie weaker than when it looks too easy for the hero guy to take out the hordes of faceless opponents (read: me), so I had to look like I knew what it was doing when it came time to throw down for the cameras. The easiest way to look like you know what you're doing? Actually know what you're doing.

So, shortly after booking my first movie gig, I started taking lessons. Kung Fu, Muay Thai, Jujitsu, you name it. In one of my kickboxing classes, there was this little guy, 19-year-old kid with long hair and silly glasses, who was just fucking insane. After a while, none of us would even step in the ring with him. Punching him in the face or kicking him in the body -- even kicks and punches form a guy my size -- didn't seem to do much more than make him laugh. And when he hit, he hit like he had anvils for hands. Once, I saw him hop out of the ring and whip off his headgear, and he was bleeding from one eye and his nose. He calmly tossed the headgear, walked over to the water fountain, got a drink, and started talking to one of the other guys in class like nothing happened. Dude was crazy, and that's what made him dangerous.

Quentin had that spark. Laura, though? She just seemed smart. Too smart to go through with some of the seemingly crazy shit I'd ask of her if she backed me up.

Still, though, as she'd pointed out, Quentin could barely stand. Crazy or not, he was still more a liability than an asset in a fight. And another point -- she was the only other person available.

"All right," I said. "Ever fired a gun before?"

* * *

So it was decided. Laura was going with me. I gave her Meskhiyev's gun and gave her a quick primer on how to use it. I really hoped I wouldn't have to depend on her aim, but as she'd said, she was the only one vertical besides me at the moment.

The next step would be getting out of the hotel room. We'd have to figure a way to get past anyone who might be looking for us, which wouldn't be easy. I'm not entirely inconspicuous on my best day, and every member of Umbra security probably had Laura's face memorized. It was still early in the morning yet, and the casino wouldn't be busy -- so no real chance of blending in with the crowd, as the crowd didn't exist.

"Do you know how the Umbra Security guys keep in touch with each other?" I asked Laura, sitting on the couch and stretching out my legs. I didn't realize until I sat down how tired I was.

"Yeah. Radios. Little walkie-talkie things with earpieces plugged in, mics in the sleeves of their jackets," she told me.

"Quentin? Anything you can do with that?"

"I can run a scanner and try to pick up their frequency. At least we can hear what they're saying. I have some gear in the duffel bag over there if you'll bring it my way."

I did, and Quentin started digging through the bag. He paused for a second and looked up at me.

"This could take a couple of hours," he said. "You might want to use the time to get some sleep. You look like hell, and no use in going on a crazy suicide mission sleep-deprived."

I nodded. That was the best idea I'd heard in quite some time.

Chapter Twelve

2011-07-12T22:09:00.000-07:00

To say I wasn't ready for that one is like saying that the Japanese gave us a playful tap on the shoulder at Pearl Harbor in 1941. That is, it's a dangerously stupid understatement.

I'd never seen Quentin fazed by much, not even the two bullets that had most likely cracked his sternum and pulverized a couple of ribs. But after Laura told us what was in the trunk, dude turned all sorts of pale and sat down on the curb next to the BMW.

"Yeah. I really, really need to lie down now," he said after a moment.

It was a moment during which no one had said a word, and I hadn't really even noticed the silence. That's probably because my brain was too busy running a mile a minute, filling my head with questions, alarms, panic, fear -- all of it jumbled up into a nice, incomprehensible mess. I couldn't pick out a single thought in the turmoil, so I just decided to shut Mister Brain down for a while. Not like he was helping me out a hell of a lot anyway.

"Right. Laura, help me get Quentin up to his room."

"About the --"

"We'll talk about that when we get there. The Umbra guys don't know where we are."

"The car might have LoJack," Quentin said.

Damn. Hadn't thought of that.

"Anything we can do about that?"

"Yeah. I have some stuff up in the room."

So we headed into the casino, me trying to support Quentin without looking like I was holding him up. We looked like hell anyway, all three of us, and I really didn't want to draw any attention I didn't need to. Of course, this was Vegas, so I doubt we would have drawn any extra attention if we'd been running through the gaming floor naked and on fire.

When we were safely in the elevator, I leaned Quentin up against the wall and turned on Laura almost instantly.

"Start talking," I said.

I tried not to sound angry, but it didn't really work. My dad taught me never to raise my voice in anger at a lady, but hey, these were the most extenuating of circumstances. You try sounding all cool and polite when you've just been told you're carting around a nuclear bomb.

"When we get to the room and I can check it for bugs," she said.

"No. Now," I snapped.

"She's right, big guy. Just calm down a second," Quentin said, coughing. "My room is clear of bugs. I always check when I leave the house."

I felt pretty damned silly all of a sudden. If a paranoid, gun-nut, crackpot like Quentin was telling me to calm down, then maybe all of my anger was out of place. After all, she'd said *most* of a nuclear weapon, right? I mean, maybe the thing was safe. Maybe.

"Fine," I grumbled, sticking my hands in my pockets and intentionally not looking at either of my two companions. That made me feel even sillier -- I was throwing a temper tantrum, I realized. Just like when I was six goddamn years old and my dad wouldn't let me hold the shotgun from his police cruiser.

We got to Quentin's room a few minutes later, and he grabbed a suitcase from the floor and, with my help, threw it up on the bed. He rummaged around inside for a moment and produced a small box with wires snaking all over it.

"Here," he told me. "Go put this in the BMW and turn it on. Anywhere should do. It'll jam the LoJack if the thing has one."

I wanted to stay and argue, to tell him I was promised answers as soon as we got to the room, but I knew he was right. We had to get the BMW off the grid as soon as possible. Even if the bomb wasn't complete, we still didn't want Meskhiyev and his pals coming after it.

"You'll make sure she doesn't leave?"

Quentin propped himself up on the bed and patted his shotgun.

"She won't have knees if she tries."

I nodded -- that was a good enough answer for me -- and headed back to the parking garage. On the way, I might have stopped for a beer. Hey, fuck it. After the night I'd had, I'd earned a drink, and it's not like there's anywhere in Vegas you can't drink. I was at the bar maybe a minute, minute and a half, but maybe if I'd stopped after... well...

The BMW was gone when I got there. I looked around, thinking maybe I'd gone to the wrong space, but no. The space I'd parked in was empty, and the same two cars -- a Ford F-150 and a Pontiac Grand Am -- were still on either side. I guess the BMW really did have a LoJack or something similar, and the Umbra guys were on top of it as soon as Meskhiyev or his buddy called it in.

I was immediately back on my guard, figuring there would be Umbra guys in the hotel looking for Laura Mills, probably for me and Quentin as well. I was thankful for his paranoia then, as he'd checked in under an assumed name, so the hotel wouldn't have any record that he was checked in, assuming the Umbra people knew who he really was in the first place. I was in alarm mode all the way back up to the room, taking random left turns and doubling back, trying to catch any evidence that someone was following me, that I'd been spotted. Either I wasn't being tailed or my stalker was really good, because I didn't see anyone. Still, it took me a good half an hour to circle my way back to the room.

The scene inside was much as I'd left it -- no Umbra guys had come in and started shooting while I was gone. Quentin was still on the bed, still with one hand on his shotgun. Laura had taken a chair across from the bed, and I could tell by the looks on their faces that I'd walked into the middle of a conversation in progress.

"BMW's gone," I said, sighing and dropping onto the couch. Quentin -- or Ken Adams, I suppose -- had a nice suite.

"Wow. These cats are good," Quentin said, nodding appreciatively.

"I know where they'll take the car," Laura told me.

"Yeah, I have a pretty good idea, too." I was thinking the office park out in the ghetto.

"Good. Then we have to go get it back."

I shook my head and started to say something, but Quentin cut me off.

"I think you're going to want to listen to the lady, big guy. She has quite a story."

* * *

And this is when I truly learned the shit we we'd gotten ourselves into.

Laura Mills went to work for Umbra Dynamics straight out of college in 1992. She'd gotten her masters in some area of physics I couldn't even pronounce, then been recruited right out of the gate. Her job was to help Umbra's software people accurately model nuclear blasts in a software package. Simple enough, and all above-board at this point. I could even see why they wanted that information, kinda. It's a little tough to wrap my head around.

So anyway, she goes on working for Umbra for five years without anything too odd going down. On the surface, they seem to be perfectly legitimate, working on contracts from the military and the Department of Justice. Software stuff, mostly, but she knows they do some hardware too -- better armor systems for Humvees, research into new air-to-air missile systems. None of that's done out of her office in Santa Monica, though. That's done at the company's testing facilities in the Nevada desert, and since she works on math and software, she never needs to go out there.

So, imagine her surprise in late 1997 when she gets an email telling her she's supposed to go out to the Nevada test site in a week to consult on some top-secret project that the company is putting together out there. She checked it out with her supervisor -- all legit, he said. They needed her specific knowledge, so plane tickets were booked, hotels called, cars rented. She got on a plane for Nevada just after Thanksgiving last year.

This is when it gets fucked up.

As soon as Laura got off the plane in Las Vegas, she was met by two men in black suits -- Umbra Security. There were a few Security guys here and there at the Santa Monica office, but Laura quickly noticed that the security presence at the Nevada facility was insane. She saw more security than scientists or engineers, but that was by design.

The two security guys led her to a windowless van and drove her to what she now knew was a not-so-abandoned office park in a terrible area of the city. She didn't really know how to get there, thanks to the lack of windows in the van, but when she got there, she was led through an empty, narrow hallway to a large, sparse office in a seemingly disused part of the building.

A man named George Nichols was in the office -- he wasn't a scientist or an engineer, either, Laura explained. He was basically an HR guy. He told her that she wouldn't be meeting anyone who was working on the project, or told any details of the project that weren't absolutely vital to her task, citing the top secret nature of the project. When Laura objected that she *had* the highest level of government clearance -- it was required for her regular day job -- Nichols simply replied that this project was classified above that.

Her task, initially, was to study ten major cities -- eight in America, two in the Russian Federation. She was to calculate the effects of a 1.8-kiloton nuclear blast set off at various locations around these cities -- Los Angeles, New York, Denver, Dallas, Chicago, Miami, San Diego, Kansas City, Moscow, and Vladivostok. She was never given a reason why she was doing these calculations, but she went ahead and did them.

Now, at this point, she had to explain something to me, because saying "a 1.8-kiloton nuclear blast" doesn't really mean anything as far as I know.

"All right. You know how big the average nuclear bomb is?" she asked.

"No. Can't say I do."

"It's between 20 and 30 megatons. That's way more powerful than 1.8 kilotons. Ten to twenty thousand times more. The thing is, those things are meant as a deterrent."

"Right. Scary doomsday bombs, never meant to be used."

"Exactly. But a 1.8-kiloton device? You don't build one of those unless you damn well plan to use it."

"But why?" I asked.

"I'm not 100% on that... but I have a theory."

Laura went on to tell us that, for the first month or so she was at the Nevada Facility, Meskhiyev had been assigned as her personal guard. He'd been the one to pick her up from the Tropicana for work in the morning, the one who dropped her at her suite door at night. Then, suddenly, Meskhiyev had been replaced by Brendan White, the ex-Marine Scout Sniper. He was Meskhiyev's right-hand man. She'd assumed it was just for a couple of days, but it ended up being quite a bit longer than that.

After Meskhiyev had been gone for three weeks or so, she and Brendan had gone for drinks after work. The ex-Marine liked to slam down the sauce, and after he'd had a few too many, Laura finally asked where the Russian had gone.

"Oh, he's on a nice, paid sailing vacation across the Pacific," Brendan had said, smirking and slurring his words. "He's got contacts where the bosses need 'em. Making a parts run."

That stopped Laura cold. Up until that point, she'd convinced herself she was data-modeling for a government contract -- predicting damage in case of, say, a terrorist device smuggled into one of the major cities. But now, another idea was creeping into her brain -- that Umbra was actually building its own nuclear device, off the reservation and without the sanction of the U.S. Government.

"Why would Meshkiyev making a trip back to Russia, I'm assuming, make you suspicious all of a sudden?" I asked.

"I asked the same thing," Quentin said, propping himself up on the bed.

"It has to do with the way a nuclear strike, a terrorist one, would be investigated," Laura said, speaking slowly as if to an elementary-school class. "You can't just stick any old fissionable material in the bomb. They're able to trace the plutonium back to where it was mined."

"So he needed to get Russian plutonium?" I asked.

"That's my guess. When the USSR broke up, a bunch of nuclear material went unaccounted for. If someone were to set off a bomb using that material, it would read as being mined somewhere in the former Soviet Union."

Something clicked in my mind then -- the blueprints I'd seen in Laura's hotel room at Caesar's. The writing on them had been foreign, but not Russian. At least, not to my untrained eyes, anyway. I mentioned it.

"You're correct. It was Chinese, and when I found that, suddenly the whole thing got even worse," she said.

"Why does a Chinese blueprint thingy make it worse?" Quentin asked.

"Because -- and remember, this is just theory here -- it means they plan to detonate their device in one of those cities and blame it on China."

That didn't make any sense to me. I mean, neither did an American defense contractor detonating a nuclear bomb in an American or Russian city, but assuming that made sense, why blame China for it? What had China ever done to us?

"Nothing, yet," Laura explained. "But their economy is growing at a massive rate. They could take over as the dominant world power in the next ten years. Unless, of course, they fight a costly war with the biggest, baddest military on the planet before that happens. And remember, Umbra's a defense contractor -- they'd make out like mad in a war."

I went to the bathroom and poured myself a glass of water. This was all crazy, and the whole Chinese conspiracy plot wasn't helping even a little. Still, there was a guy in a BMW out there with a nuclear bomb. It was time to call the police and let them know about Umbra's little hideout in the ghetto.

"I wouldn't recommend that," Laura said when I grabbed the phone.

"Oh, right. A scientist, a banged-up hacker, and a bounty hunter should go out there and get back a nuclear bomb instead," I scoffed.

"Umbra won't let the cops get within a hundred yards of that place. If they have to..."

She let the silence hang there in the room for a minute, but I shared a look with Quentin. Her meaning was clear to both of us.

They'll detonate the nuke.

Chapter Eleven

2011-07-01T23:01:00.000-07:00

The Town Car was moving at a pretty decent clip, so I knew we didn't have long to make our move before they made it to the office complex. I'd have to do something soon, and I was pretty sure I knew what would work.

If you've ever caught *COPS*, you're probably familiar with the Pursuit Immobilization Technique, or PIT maneuver. Basically, the car in pursuit -- my borrowed BMW, in this case -- accelerates, aligning its front wheels with the other car's rear wheels. Then there's a nice, hard swerve into the other car, causing it to spin out and stop. It has the dual purpose of working really well and looking pretty fucking cool. The latter reason is why I learned it in stunt driving school.

Of course, a pro driver who knows the PIT is coming can steer out of it, J-Turn around and get the hell out of there. I didn't know what kind of driving they taught in the KGB, but I had another trick up my sleeve in case Meskhiyev knew how to recover. I turned to Quentin and told him to hold on.

We were on a nice, straight stretch of road with only a couple of other cars around when I jammed on the gas and brought the front passenger tire of the BMW in contact with the Town Car's rear driver tire. I jerked the wheel the right, and suddenly, the Town Car was skidding sideways in front of me. The Town Car immediately skidded out and slammed into a bus shelter, and Quentin and I were out of the BMW seconds later.

He had the shotgun up and ready, and I had my Sig drawn and aimed at the Town Car's driver door. It was right when the passenger door opened that I realized I hadn't told Quentin we weren't planning on shooting anyone -- I hoped he could figure that out for himself, but let's be honest. Guy was walking around with an illegal sawed-off in his jacket. Probably not the best argument for prudence right there.

I wasn't two steps out of the car before the driver's window of the Town Car shattered. I heard a gunshot, and Quentin went down immediately.

You know, I've been in probably 20 real gunfights, and about a hundred times that many in the movies (thanks to multiple takes), and what Meskhiyev had just done never occurred to me. He'd fired through the closed window, not even bothering to waste the second it would have taken to open the door. It was a desperation move, a survival move, and it had worked -- it thinned out his hunters and gave him and his boy the advantage.

I had my own survival reflex, and it was to get to ground fast. I dove back behind the BMW and scrambled as quickly as I could to the rear tire. I heard another shot -- this one from a much bigger gun, or much closer, before Meskhiyev started screaming in Russian.

"What?" the other guy yelled, his voice way too loud. I realized he'd proably been deafened when Meskhiyev fired from inside the closed car.

"The package! That's my car, shithead!"

"Fuck!"

I didn't know what they were talking about, and right then, it didn't matter. It gave me a couple of seconds, and I used them. I flattened myself onto the pavement, took a quick glance, and fired my Sig as fast as I could. Meskhiyev's partner yelped and hit the ground -- I couldn't tell for sure where I'd hit him, but I was aiming for his shins, shooting under the car's undercarriage.

"Mister Harris!" Meskhiyev yelled. I could hear him scramble for cover behind his own vehicle.

"Alexsandr Meskhiyev!" I yelled back. I wanted him to know that I knew who he was.

"It seems the odds are now even, Mister Harris! Perhaps we can discuss this matter like civilized adults!"

The air was still and quiet around us. I'd like to say I was thinking over what he'd just said, but truth to be told, I was just trying to get my brain to form a thought. A word. Anything. I might be a better driver than this guy, but he had me outclassed as a shooter any day, and I was fucking terrified.

"So what's your answer, Mister Harris?" Meskhiyev finally yelled, breaking the silence.

"Here's my answer," I heard someone say. The next thing I heard was a loud, sickening crack.

After a few seconds of complete silence, I poked my head over the BMW's trunk. I could see Quentin standing there, leaning against the hood of the town car, his shotgun in one hand.

"Come on out," he said quietly, coughing.

"Did you kill him?" I asked.

"Nah. Just cracked him in the skull with Mr. Sawed-Off, here," Quentin said, grinning weakly.

"You all right?"

Quentin held open his jacket with one hand, revealing his torso. His shirt was torn aside, and underneath, I could see he was wearing a Kevlar vest. Two bullets were embedded, one right next to the other, just to the left of his sternum.

"Hey, I know I don't know shit about gunfights. Figured wearing protection was job one," he said.

"Probably busted up your sternum and ribs pretty good," I told him, walking slowly over to the motionless town car.

Neither Meskhiyev or his partner were moving. The other guy -- the one I'd shot in the legs -- was unconscious, probably passed out from the pain. Meshkiyev was crumpled in a heap near the Town Car's front passenger tire.

"Laura? You in there?" I asked through the Town Car's open driver door.

"Yeah. You guys gonna shoot at me?" she asked.

"No. Promise. Come on out."

The back door opened, and Laura slowly stepped out. She looked a bit tired, but that's not much of a stretch when a person had been on the run for a couple of days. She still looked miles better than anyone I'd brought in before.

"Who are you guys?"

"I'm Jake. That's Quentin," I said, nodding over to Quentin, who grunted and pushed himself off the hood of the car. "We're... well, I guess here to take you to jail."

"You're cops?"

"No, not by a long shot. Bounty hunter."

"Great. Wait a second -- is that Meskhiyev's car you're driving?"

"Yeah. I'm just going to ditch it when we get back into a safe neighborhood... which we should really think about doing before these assholes wake up," I said, motioning to the BMW.

"No can do. You have to hang onto this car, and the two of you have to get me as far away from a major city as you can."

I wasn't accustomed to a target telling me what to do, and I guess it showed on my face. Laura Mills glared at me, staring me down like I was a dog who refused to sit.

"Look, Laura. I'm taking you to jail. I don't want to have to put cuffs on you and drag you there, but after what I've been through in the last couple of days, you can damn well believe I will."

"You can't. Look, we can talk about this in the car. Can we just get the hell out of here already?"

I had to admit, that was the best plan at the moment. I helped Quentin into the passenger seat as Laura got in the BMW's back seat. A few seconds later, we were rolling.

As I started to pull away from the wrecked Town Car, Quentin put his hand on my shoulder.

"Stop the car a second," he said, wheezing.

I pressed the brake pedal and looked over at him.

"You don't sound good, Q."

He waved his hand dismissively and rolled down the passenger window.

"Town Car's still driveable," he explained, pushing his shotgun out the window and firing twice. I saw slugs tear into the Town Car's hood, and heard the engine immediately sputter and die.

"All right. Let's roll. I need to lay down," Quentin said, leaning his head back against the headrest and closing his eyes.

"I have a room back at Ceasar's," Laura piped up.

"Had," I corrected her. "Meskhiyev knows where it is. Probably cleaned it out and has five guys on it."

"How the hell would he know about it?"

"Probably the same way I did. Tracked your credit card."

"Monte Carlo," Quentin said with a cough. "They don't know who I am, and I checked in under an alias anyway."

"Right," I said, nodding and heading back towards the bright lights of the Strip, visible from even out here in the ghetto.

A few minutes passed in silence. When we hit a stop light on Las Vegas Boulevard between Old Town and the Stratosphere, I turned around to look at Laura.

"So, you've got something to say? Something about why I shouldn't just haul you back to Los Angeles County Lockup and get my well-deserved paycheck?"

"You ever wonder why my bail was so high?"

"Excuse my bluntness, lady, but I didn't really give a shit."

"Come on, Jake. You don't strike me as an idiot, and you're obviously good at your job. Half a million for failure to appear? And you didn't even wonder?"

I didn't want to admit it, but she had a point. I had wondered.

"So?"

"So, the charges were inserted into the system. I went to ground, and they needed to find me. Their corporate security wasn't having much luck, so they enlisted the help of the LAPD and Los Angeles Sheriff's Department. Without their knowledge, of couse."

"Come on. Umbra doesn't have that kind of pull," I said, shaking my head.

"Yeah. Yeah, they do," Quentin muttered from the passenger seat.

"Why did they need you? You work for them," I asked as we got moving again.

"Worked. I quit when I found out what they were doing."

"They're a defense contractor, right?" I asked. "You have a problem with working for the military, or what?"

"No. That's not it. Their defense work is only part of what they do. And on the books, it's a big part, but really, it's not even the tip of the iceberg."

Traffic on the Strip was lighter now, and we made it to the Monte Carlo in just a couple of minutes. I helped Quentin out of the car, keeping an eye on Laura in case she felt like bolting. She didn't, though. She just got out of the back seat and leaned against the car, looking at me.

"Yeah?" I said.

"Keys," she demanded.

"Right. I'm just going to let you take the car and vanish again."

"I'm not running," she said.

"Uh huh."

"Do me a favor. Open the trunk."

I looked at Quentin, who just shrugged. So I opened the BMW's trunk, and Quentin hobbled over to see what was inside. Laura moved a black blanket aside and revealed a spiderwebbed mess of wires and metal. I looked at the... whatever it was... for a few seconds, trying to figure out what it was. Nothing looked familiar -- it just looked like some cheap electronics thrown onto a metal frame.

"So... what am I looking at, exactly?"

"That would be a nearly complete, homemade nuclear bomb," Laura said, closing the trunk.

Chapter Ten

2011-06-24T21:58:00.000-07:00

There was no debate, no internal monologue this time. I was following them, and I was taking Laura Mills back to Los Angeles. Too much had happened in the past few days for me to do anything but.

There were only two guys with her, and I was sure they weren't cops. The Town Car had private plates, not Federal or State ones. I also noticed as I passed the car that there was no extra radio gear, no lights, no lowered suspension -- definitely not a law enforcement vehicle. The guys were Umbra Security, which meant... open season. Sure, they outnumbered me, but they were smaller, and I had the element of surprise.

As I tailed them through the gaming floor, I decided on my plan of attack. They looked like they were heading for the elevators, so once they got somewhere out of the way, that was when I'd crack some skulls and grab the girl. Two-on-one were about the best odds I could hope for.

I stayed about fifty feet back from them, keeping myself behind slot machines and late-night gamblers as I walked. Both of Laura Mills' escorts were scouting for tails, but they weren't doing a bang-up job -- a quick glance back over a shoulder here and there. I was, of course, concerned that there might be more guys hiding on the gaming floor, ready to pounce on me the second I made my move, but I was ready for that.

It's one of the things I learned as a stuntman -- situational awareness. Things didn't go wrong often in a big, coreographed stunt, but there was always the possibility. As a stunt performer, you learn to be aware of movement from any direction, almost like a sixth sense. If, say, a piece of burning metal was headed for the back of your head, you learned to duck without really thinking, or even consciously knowing the flaming chunk of death was trying to decapitate you. That was the state I was in now.

The two guys and Laura made it to one of the back hallways, a small elevator lounge that would take them up into the hotel. It was just far enough removed from the gaming floor that I could take them down there. As I got closer, however, I heard one of them mumbling into his sleeve, one hand over his ear.

"Copy that. We're in the lobby."

As he pulled his hand away from his ear, I saw one of those little Secret-Service radio earbuds. I ducked behind a rather large man at a slot machine near the elevator lobby and chanced a look out -- the elevator doors were opening, and inside were four more guys in black suits. One of them was Meskhiyev.

Shit. Two-to-one odds, I could handle. Six-to-one... well, there was bravery, and there was stupidity. Six-to-one definitely fell into the latter category. As the two guys from the car ushered Laura Mills into the elevator, I popped out from behind the obese gambler and watched the numbers on the elevator car. The elevator stopped on the 30th floor, and I immediately pressed the call button.

It only took about a minute for another elevator to show up, and I hopped in and pressed the button for the 30th floor. I was well aware I'd pretty much lost them already -- they'd be inside one of the rooms up there -- but maybe I'd get lucky and see a guy in a black suit going into or coming out of one. They weren't being too subtle, but it was Vegas. They probably just assumed no one was paying attention to their shit, and with the exception of me, they were probably right.

In the elevator lounge on the 30th floor, I was greeted by long, featureless hallways to the left and the right. A drunken 20-year-old guy ambled past, trying unsuccessfully to light a cigarette and walk at the same time. He smiled at me and shot me a thumbs-up, then leaned up against the wall next to the elevators. Slowly, he sunk down to the floor until he was sitting with his legs crossed, then finally managed to light his smoke.

"Hey, my man," I said, squatting down until I was in his eyeline. "You see a bunch of dudes in black suits hanging around up here?"

The drunk kid nodded, his eyes half-lidded, and pointed down the hallway to the right with his now-lit Marlboro. I nodded, grinned at him, and headed down the hall to the right. I kept to one side of the hallway, trying to make myself as small as possible, though that was pointless. Nowhere to hide out in the open, of course. But somehow, sneaking through an open, well-lit hallway made me feel better. Stealthier.

The Umbra guys made it easy for me to find them, but that's probably because they assumed no one was looking for them. Around the first corner, I noticed a guy in a black suit pacing up and down the hall. He was making a wide orbit, but right around room 3022, he slowed a bit each time. That was where they were, and they only had one guy on the door. One guy shouldn't be too hard to avoid. I had an idea, but I wouldn't be able to do it on my own.

See, here's the thing. The best bet would be to take this guy out and hang outside the room until they came out. But I knew I was facing five guys alone -- even if I caught them by surprise, I'd probably end up getting myself and the girl shot. I could hang back by the corner and watch, but if they took another elevator down... well, it would be really easy to lose them.

So second best would be to sit on their black Town Car downstairs, which I'm sure someone had parked by now. But it was entirely possible that wherever they were going to go when they did come out... well, they could easily walk. Vegas is the sort of town where you can get pretty much anywhere -- well, anywhere worth going -- on foot, especially at night when the heat had blown off a bit. So keeping an eye on the car might just let them walk right out the front door.

I'd need someone downstairs, someone who could pick up the tail after I lost it. And there was only one person in town who could get my back. It wasn't quite 2:00 yet, but I decided to check anyway. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed.

"Monte Carlo Hotel and Casino," a woman's voice answered.

"Hi. Ken Adams, please."

* * *

Quentin met me on the 30th floor in a matter of minutes. He had changed clothes -- we was now wearing a long coat and brown cargo pants. He had a pair of yellow-lensed sunglasses on, despite the fact that it was almost two in the morning.

"Hey. What's up?" he whispered, creeping up next to me at the corner of the hall.

"Found the girl."

"Man, you're good."

"No, I'm lucky. She's in 3022 under guard. I'm going to hopefully snatch her when they move her."

"What do you need from me?"

"Hang out downstairs near the elevators. If I call you, they're coming down. Guys in black suits with a good-looking woman my age. Keep on them until I can catch up."

"I can do that. Hey, got something for you," Quentin said, digging into the hip pocket of his cargo pants and pulling out a wad of bills.

"What's this?"

"It's your initial $25 investment, turned into $2500, minus ten percent. That's my fee," he said, grinning.

"How did you --"

"I'm a genius, remember? I'll be downstairs. You let me know when it's game time."

As Quentin headed back down the hall toward the elevators, I turned my attention back to room 3022. It was very quiet in the hall, and apart from the guard, no one was moving much. If he decided to round the corner, I was pretty fucked, but he hadn't in the last half-hour.

By the time something happened, most of the blood had drained out of my legs from crouching so long. Fortunately, none of the people coming up or down my side of the hall had been surprised to see me creeping around, any more than they were surprised by the frat boy sleeping next to the elevator lobby. I guess, after a certain hour, nothing really seems odd in Vegas. I checked my watch when the activity started: 3:27 a.m.

The guard left the hall first, heading into 3022. I pulled out my cell and dialed Quentin's number, and he picked up on the second ring.

"Movement. Guard just got recalled," I told him.

"Right. I'm near the front elevator lobby, but there's a back one, too. I can get there in under a minute."

"Hold on. They're coming out now," I whispered.

The door to 3022 opened, and Meskhiyev came out first, followed by another guy in a black suit. This one was huge -- I couldn't tell for sure, but he might have been bigger than me. They headed down the hall away from me. They must have been going for the back elevators.

"Back elevators. The girl and two guards, including the Russian guy. I'm coming down in the front elevators. Stay on the line."

"Got it."

I sprinted back down the hall, past the sleeping frat boy and into the elevator lobby. The door was just closing as I got there, but I shoved my arm in and stopped it. No one was inside, and I pounded the button for the first floor.

The ride didn't take long, but it felt like forever. As I passed the third floor, Quentin's voice buzzed in my ear.

"They're heading for the parking garage. I'm on them. Heading for a black BMW."

"Gotcha."

"Looks like they're having some trouble. Meskhiyev's checking his pockets. Holy shit. Think the guy forgot his keys."

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a set of BMW keys as the doors opened.

"Uh, I have them."

"How -- never mind. They're getting into a black Town Car two spaces down. We don't move quick, we're going to lose them."

I cleared the doors into the parking garage and saw Quentin crouched behind a concrete support. I tapped him on the shoudler, and he turned and hung up his phone.

"We need to stay on them," he said.

"Well, let's just take their ride," I said, grinning and holding up the BMW keys.

We stayed behind the pillar until the Town Car backed out and started off the other way. As soon as it was a few hundred feet away, we sprinted for the BMW, which thankfully had keyless entry. I got in the driver's seat and started backing out just as Quentin got his door closed.

"Nice ride," Quentin commented, running his hand over the dashboard.

"Yeah. Keep an eye on that Town Car. If it looks like they've spotted me... well, that would be good to know," I told him, heading off in the direction Meskhiyev had gone. We caught sight of them in just a few seconds -- they were turning out onto the Strip.

"There are, like, hundreds of black Town Cars out there," Quentin said.

"Yeah. Courtesy cars, private car services. Did you happen to catch the license plate?"

"Nevada CRJ899," he said as we turned left onto the Strip. "There it is."

I kept a few cars back, but Quentin was right -- there were a shitload of black Town Cars out on the Strip. Thankfully, I had a second set of eyes, so we didn't lose them as we powered on past the Strip and headed into North Vegas.

"Where the fuck are they going now?" Quentin wondered.

"I think I know. There's an abandoned office park way out in the ghetto. It's pretty secure. They get her in there, it's going to be tough getting her out."

"So we don't let them get there," Quentin said, nodding.

"Right. We take them in transit. Think you can handle one of 'em while I take down the other?"

Quentin reached into his long coat and pulled out an Ithaca 37 Stakeout shotgun with a pistol grip.

"Thought you'd never ask," he said, chuckling.

Chapter Nine

2011-06-16T23:19:00.000-07:00

I spent the next several hours slowly working my way north up the strip, stopping in every casino and making several circuits to make sure I wasn't being followed. Most people are pretty easy to spot when they're trying to tail you -- if you see the same person more than once at several different, random locations, chances are he's after you. Especially if you have reason to suspect someone's following you. All it takes is a little observation.

Of course, it was a little harder when you figure that a whole company is after you. Companies have multiple employees, and if there are enough people on your tail, your chances of picking one of them out are pretty slim. One guy will follow you into, say, the Sahara, then hand you off to another guy as soon as you leave. That guy will follow you along the street, but hand you off to yet another guy the next time you duck inside. It's the same way the cops tail a high-priority suspect.

Still, there are ways you can tell. Catch someone looking away quickly right as you make eye contact? That guy could be tailing you. See someone stop suddenly and become very interested in something patently uninteresting when you look in his direction? He's definitely following you.

It seemed, though, I'd made my escape from the Imperial Palace without a tail. Or at least, without one I could discover. Either no one was after me, or the people after me were so good I wasn't going to lose them anyway, so it didn't really matter. I made it to the Stratosphere just after dark.

I found a place by the sports book to have a seat and keep an eye out. I didn't expect to see Quentin come in -- he was sneaky like that. But I was still worried about someone following me, so I spent the next couple of hours just sitting, watching. Besides, it felt good to sit down for a bit. I'd been on my feet all day. Still, I didn't detect any sort of tail, so I was good to go.

Around 11:15, I got in line for the elevator up to the 107th floor. It wasn't a short line this time of night -- the highest point in Las Vegas was a popular place to hang out around midnight, what with the postcard-worthy view of the strip, the laser light of the Luxor shooting off into space, and the relatively cheap drinks at the bar. No one really gave me much of a second glance, even though I was dressed in leather, a full head taller than anyone else in the line, and looking pretty damned rough by that point.

That's one thing I like about Las Vegas, though. No one really looks odd or out of place here. There's really no normal, no baseline for appearance. Unless you're walking around completely naked, you're probably not going to get stared at. Hell, even then you might not, but I'm not itching to test out that particular theory.

A group of Korean tourists, kids a couple of years younger than me, were in front of me in line. They were tipsy and affable, and had a couple 12-packs of Budweiser with them. Though they didn't speak any real English, at least not any that I recognized, they were making friends with everyone around them in line. When they smiled in my direction and handed me a bottle, I was only too happy to accept it and smile back. If there was ever a time I could use a drink, that was it.

Even with the long line, I made it to the 107th floor about ten minutes before midnight. I didn't bother to look around for Quentin -- he'd find me. I'm easier to pick out of a crowd than he is. Easier to pick out than most people, really.

And find me he did. One second, I was standing next to the Korean kids as they plowed toward the bar, the next he was there in front of me. He wore a big goofy grin and had a crazy-huge drink in his right hand. He was minorly tipsy, but I'd expected that. In addition to being crazy smart, Quentin had a bit of the social anxiety disorder. If he was going out in public, that meant he was two or three drinks up on everyone else in the world.

"You look like pounded shit," Quentin said, his lopsided grin widening. "What are you drinking?"

"Beer," I said.

"Hey, Frank! Get my guy here a Pete's Wicked, yeah?" Quentin yelled over his shoulder at the bartender, who was definitely not named Frank. Not unless her parents had a horrible sense of humor.

She scowled at him, but she produced a bottle of Pete's Wicked Ale anyway and set it on the bar in front of me. Quentin laid a $20 bill on the bar and winked at her, then picked up the beer and ushered me away towards the observation deck.

"Serious about you looking awful, though."

"Yeah. Happens when you spend the day on the run."

"About that. Looked into Umbra Dynamics for you. Man, that is one beautiful system they have running there. I was almost right when I said it was unhackable," he said, his words barely above a whisper as we stepped outside into the warm, windy night. He stood close, so I could just barely hear his words before the desert wind caught them and whipped them away into the night.

"Almost right?" I asked, keeping my voice as low as his.

"Yeah. I got in. For about five minutes, but I got in. First looked for your lady friend, Laura Mills. Her file was locked up tight. But there was a file -- she works there."

I nodded.

"Then I checked out their Security People. This little guy, Russian, you think?"

"Could be."

"Black hair? Scar on the right side of his neck?"

I thought back -- there was a hint of a scar coming out from just under the little guy's collar. Old one, looked like.

"Yeah. That's probably him."

"Aleksandr Meskhiyev. Up until seven years ago, he worked for the KGB. Mean motherfucker. Please tell me he's all sorts of dead now."

"A concealed carry license doesn't mean I just get to shoot anyone I want, Quentin," I said with a sigh. I'd explained that to him before. "I can only legally shoot someone when my life or someone else's is in danger."

"Yeah, but wasn't this guy shooting at you?"

"Not him. A buddy of his in a building across the street. Hard to make a case to a judge that Meskhiyev was controlling that guy, or that shooting him would make the other guy stop shooting."

"A sniper?"

"I think so."

"Think I might know who that is, too. Name's Brendan White. Marine Scout Sniper in the Gulf War. These are some hardcore guys you're messing with, Jake."

I nodded. I'd already figured that much out -- so far, Quentin's hacking wasn't really helping at all.

"So what else did you find out?"

"Not much. Like I said, they have your lady locked down in the system. But someone got a little sloppy. I caught a reference to her name in a project file -- she was listed as a senior engineer on some project having to do with nuclear... something."

"Like what? Power plants?"

"The impression that I got was it was more about weapons. It was lumped in with all of their defense stuff -- same project group -- but there's no contract from the government for it. As near as I can tell, it's something the company is doing on its own."

I thought about that for a moment as I sipped from my nice, cold beer. Why would a private company be doing something with nuclear weapons if not for the government? And what research was there possibly left to do there? Hadn't we figured everything out in, like, the 50s? I'm not a student of history past whatever PBS documentaries I catch, so I couldn't be sure.

"And I found one more thing. Just like Laura Mills' credit card records, there was evidence that someone else had already hacked into Umbra Dynamics. This was a memo to their Security team, letting them know that someone in Compton had made an attempt to access their system."

Something clicked in my head. Compton. That's where Laura Mills' brother had gone. To see the hacker? To try and find his sister, like I was doing?

"Thanks, Quentin. I think you might have helped quite a bit there," I told him, draining the last of the Pete's Wicked. "You heading back to Los Angeles in the morning?"

"Oh, hell no. No way I'm going back to the house until you sort this thing out. That hacker in Compton? Probably the same guy whose house was firebombed with him in it this morning."

"I hadn't heard about it."

"Yeah, it was on the evening news. I put the pieces together shortly after I made it into Umbra's system. I'm in the wind for a while."

"You going to stay in Vegas, then?"

"Probably for a while. I'll be around if you need any help. What about you? You get another room yet?"

"Yeah, there's a problem with that..."

"Left your cash back in the Firebombing of Dresden?"

I was going to tell Quentin the truth -- that I was pretty much broke -- but me leaving most of my money back in the hotel room I'd had to abandon was much less embarassing. I nodded.

"Most of it," I said.

"You still got some on you?"

"Like, $25."

"Give it," he said, sighing and opening his hand.

I dug into my wallet and pulled out the two tens and one five dollar bill. He shoved them into his front left pocket, then checked his watch.

"Two hours. Meet me down at the Monte Carlo. Ask the desk clerk to ring Ken Adams."

"Who the hell is Ken Adams?"

"That's me. At least, it is until the heat dies down. Now, get gone. You're bad luck."

* * *

So I was back on the Strip again, but at least it wasn't brutally hot out anymore. And I was two beers up, which is always better than being no beers into the evening. I still had my eye out for anyone following me, but talking to Quentin had made me feel better. Even if he did have all of my money, as small an amount as that was.

Still, the cooler weather and the time since the morning's firestorm had me in a much better mood as I slowly walked south down the Strip. I had a destination -- the Monte Carlo -- but I had more than enough time to get there. People who have never been to Las Vegas don't realize that the Strip itself is only about five miles long, so it doesn't take too long to walk from one end to the other. I wasn't even going that far -- maybe three miles or so -- and I had two hours in which to do it.

So I stopped often, checking for tails of course, but also just to people-watch. Vegas is great for people-watching, especially after midnight. All of the crazies are out, and mingling with all of the normals. At about 1:00 in the morning, I'd made it down to the Stardust, and was stopping to cool my heels for a few minutes before continuing on.

And then I saw something I didn't expect: Laura Mills. And she wasn't alone -- two men in black suits were ushering her out of a black Town Car and shuffling her into the hotel.

Chapter Eight

2011-06-09T22:17:00.001-07:00

The little guy wasn't in a hurry to start talking. He slowly pulled a gold windproof lighter from his jacket, clicked it open, and touched the tip of the flame to the cigarette in his mouth. I was glad Mike was such a heavy smoker, so I was used to it now, but back when I quit two years ago, this guy lighting up right in front of me would have driven me to homicide.

"Now, we both know why you're here, and why you were at a certain room across the street this morning. You even made it out to the complex, which surprised them."

"Them?" I asked.

"Yes, them. Not me, though. I told them not to underestimate you."

I considered pushing for a more accurate description of who "they" were, but something in the guy's face told me it was pointless. "They" were simply "them." Best to let it stand and move on.

"Well, I'm a smart guy," I said, shrugging my shoulders.

"Hardly," the little guy chortled, sending micro-puffs of smoke my way. "But you are, as I mentioned before, stupidly persistent. It was only a matter of time."

I considered again pouncing on this dude from across the room. How quick could his sniper friend react, anyway? Still, self-preservation instincts kicked in, and I let the comment slide.

"Now. I must warn you -- as a friend, you understand -- that your continued persistence in tracking down this young lady will only result in bad things for you. And not just for you," the little guy continued, nodding slightly at me.

"For who? My family?"

"Patronizing me is not a healthy course of action," he told me. "You don't have a family. Only child, mother died when you were three, father drunkenly crashed his patrol car into a tree in your senior year of high school. But you do have friends -- Mike DeLonge, Quentin Barnes. One in downtown, one in Silver Lake. Quiz me if you don't think I have their exact locations at this very moment."

Shit. "They," apparently, knew everything there was to know.

I was stuck, and I knew it. If this guy didn't get the answer he wanted, I just might live long enough to make it back to LA and find Mike and Quentin dead. I had to say it, but I didn't have to mean it. No rules against lying.

"Fine," I said, sighing. "You've made your point. I'm off the case.'

"It was, of course, the only choice you could make," he told me, nodding. "See that you stay clear. Go back home, take a few days off. The whole situation will be done by the time you go back to work, and you'll never have to spare a thought on it again."

I nodded, gritting my teeth together as I did so. The little guy smoothed out his black jacket, stood, and tucked his cigarettes back into his pocket. As he started for the door, I saw the red dot vanish from my chest.

It would take the little guy's sniper buddy time -- a couple of seconds? -- to reaquire me, and I knew I could move faster than that could happen. In half a second, I had the little guy tackled to the carpet. I'd already punched him once hard in the face, and I was bringing up my fist to deliver another blow. He laughed.

"That was... unwise," he chortled, spitting up a few drops of blood.

The windows suddenly exploded in on us. Gunfire ripped up the walls, the beds, and the door as I threw myself flat on the floor and pulled out my Sig. Don't know who I was planning to shoot at, but it felt better to have it in my hand than not.

The gunfire was flying over my head, and I realized the sniper couldn't see below the windows. That meant he was probably close to the same height in the building across from us, and it also meant I might be able to belly-crawl to the door. I checked the floor next to me -- the man in black was still chuckling on the floor, bleeding from the mouth.

"You should have listened to me, my friend," he shouted over the continuing gunfire. "You would have survived."

"Oh, shut the fuck up," I grumbled, shooting my right leg out and catching him in the side of the head.

The little guy's lights went out almost immediately, and I quickly rifled through his jacket pockets. Inside, I found a Glock .23 pistol, his cigarettes, and a set of car keys. I took the gun and the keys and stashed them in my jacket. Just as I was crawling away, I noticed a small, gold pin on the jacket's lapel, a sweeping, inverted triangle design. It tried to ring a bell in my brain, but nothing came up right away. Maybe the continuous gunfire was distracting me.

I crawled out into the hall, where I could just see people running for the elevators. As soon as I cleared my door, I got up and ran along with them, throwing myself into the elevator just as the doors closed and the car started to descend to ground level.

I knew I couldn't go for my car -- they'd have that covered for sure, and the Imperial Palace Parking garage was small and closed off. It would be a turkey shoot in there. My best bet was to stay with these people in the elevator, try and slip out into the streets in the confusion and get some distance. That was, of course, assuming I could blend in, and that they didn't have guys waiting at every exit.

When the elevator doors opened, the people inside with me simply joined the chaos in the lobby. Surprisingly, there were no cops at the front doors yet. That struck me as odd, as it felt like the little guy's buddy had been shooting at me forever, and the Strip was usually crawling with LVPD. Still, the front doors weren't covered, and the chaotic mess of people was heading that way, so I hunched down into the crowd and spilled out onto Las Vegas Boulevard with them.

Most of them were just standing around outside, not sure what to do after they'd made it out of the building. I immediately took it on my heels, sweating intensely underneath my leather coat. I didn't dare take it off, though -- the two handguns under my jacket were sure to draw some attention, especially so close to an area that had just gotten all shot up. I headed north up the Strip, but there wasn't any strategy behind that. I just wanted to put as much distance between myself and the crime scene as possible.

I knew I was in trouble. Once the cops got there, the Imperial Palace would let them know who was staying in the room that now resembled North Vietnam. About ten minutes after that, they'd have my driver's license picture in every patrol car. The Beast might as well have been parked in Guam, because as soon as the little guy's friends were off it, the cops would be on it. I had no room, no transport, about $25 in my pocket, and a credit card that had about $50 in available credit on it. Couldn't use the card anyway -- as I'd proved last night, it was a nice, easy way to track someone down.

It was pretty stupid to kick the crap out of that little guy. I know this. I should have just done what he told me and walked away, but it wasn't something I thought out. Rage was rarely logical, and that was the fuel behind the little guy's beat-down. I'd made things a whole lot worse for myself, but still...

Damn it felt good to kick the shit out of that guy.

I just kept walking, and ended up at the Riviera after a bit. I was covered in sweat, so I popped inside to get some air conditioning and will my hands to stop shaking. My heartbeat was probably still north of 100 BPM. I know the big, tough-guy move would be to say I wasn't scared, but that would be a lie. You try being calm and collected when someone just pumped a couple of hundred rounds in your direction.

As I wandered around the casino floor, I realized I needed to make a couple of phone calls. The little guy had threatened Mike and Quentin, and while I was sure they could both take care of themselves, I needed to give them a heads-up. My cell battery was still pretty well charged, but the roaming charges were going to be killer. Yeah, you think of strange stuff when you're in panic mode.

I called Mike first and explained what had happened. Mike has more cop buddies than any man I know. It's one of the perks of his job, and the fact that he's actually pretty likeable. He wasn't happy with the situation I'd gotten him into, but I was sure he'd be fine. He'd let his cop buddies know someone was out there with a grudge against him, and they'd keep an eye on him.

Quentin was armed to the teeth and never left the house, so I was even less worried about him. He had cameras covering every inch of his crappy-looking property, so no one would even get close without him knowing about it. Still, I gave him a ring and let him know what was up.

"Damn, man. Another person out to get me? You got a name or anything?"

"Nah. Little guy. Eastern European. Tough as shit. And he has friends."

"No ID at all on him?"

When Quentin asked, I remembered the pin on the little guy's lapel. More importantly, I suddenly remembered where I'd seen it before -- on a wall behind a disinterested secretary in Santa Monica.

"Umbra Dynamics," I told Quentin. "I think the little guy works for them."

"Oh, shit. You really got us into a mess now, boss," Quentin groaned.

"What? You know something about Umbra Dynamics?"

"A bit. Nothing good."

"Think you can hack them for me, get me something to work with?"

I could hear Quentin cover the phone, and even with his hand over the reciever, I could still hear him laugh hysterically for a couple of seconds.

"Seriously, Jake. Umbra is un-fucking-hackable. They're a Defense Department contractor, but they're harder to hack than the Pentagon. If they don't want to kill me already, me trying to hack them will definitely put me on their kill list."

"You saying it can't be done?" I said, smirking to myself in spite of the situation. I knew how Quentin would respond to that.

"Whoa, whoa. Hold on there, big guy. No one said I couldn't. It'd just be a bad idea."

"Hey, you can't do it, you can't do it. No worries."

"Fuck. Give me ten hours. I'll meet you on the top floor of the Stratosphere at midnight," he growled.

Chapter Seven

2011-06-01T23:51:00.001-07:00

I looked like hell when I got back to the Imperial Palace, as I could tell from the girl at the front desk shaking her head slightly when she saw me. My nose was still running like mad, and I couldn't keep my eyes open for more than a couple of seconds at a time without needing to blink. They didn't sting as much anymore, though, which was nice.

A shower was the first order of business. I still didn't look great when I got out -- my nose was still running, and both eyes were still red and puffy. I had the beginnings of a shiner on my left eye. An angry blood vessel had also popped in the left eye, though I'm not sure if it was from the pepper spray or the guy's mega-punch to my skull. Damn if he didn't hit hard for a little dude.

I was feeling a little better, though. I could keep my eyes open a reasonable amount of time now, and nothing felt like it was burning. That was a plus. I decided to catch some breakfast and scope out the address on the business card I'd found before I got punked by a guy half my size.

Yeah, I was still smarting on that one.

If you want a cheap breakfast, Vegas is the place to get it, especially in the casinos. They want you to spend your money gambling, not on things like food. For the change in my pocket, I got access to the Palace's breakfast buffet. It wasn't what I would really call good, but there was a lot of it.

After breakfast, it was time to check out the address in North Vegas. Sure, it was hot as fuck out, but going to North Vegas in the daylight was infinitely preferable to going there after dark.

If you've just been to Las Vegas on vacation, you've probably only seen the Strip, maybe Old Town. You might even think Vegas is a perfectly nice city, but man would you be wrong. If you really think that, try an experiment -- walk about three blocks off the North Strip (you know, around Sahara and Stratosphere). See how quick you feel like you're about to get murdered, even in broad daylight. From what I've seen on my previous work trips, most of Las Vegas is a fucking ghetto, plain and simple.

So, even in midmorning, and even with my best buddy Sig Sauer riding shotgun, I wasn't exactly crazy over the prospect of going way off the strip to this random address. I had no idea what I was going to find there, but if my adventures in Compton the day before were any indication, it would probably be something fucked up.

I considered again just walking away, just cutting my losses, going home, and looking for any other job but this one to pay the bills. The cost-benefit ratio on Bounty Hunting was going down with each passing minute, what with getting shot at twice in as many days and some little dude beating the crap out of me. Throwing in for some Welfare looked great right about then.

One thing I inherited from my dad, though, was stubbornness. I guess I just can't leave well enough alone, ever. At least I didn't inherit his alcoholism, too. So I retrieved the Beast from the Imperial Palace's parking garage, got a map of Las Vegas from a 7-11 just off the Strip, and plotted my way out of the good part of the city.

Compton was a ghetto, but at least it didn't really look like it. For the most part, people took care of their property, mowed their lawns, kept their houses from falling apart. That wasn't the case in North Las Vegas. Trash on the lawns wasn't uncommon, at least in the rare places you could find lawns. Mostly, the neighborhoods were concrete and sand, with a little more concrete and some dirt thrown in for good measure. Cars were broken-down, dented, and dirty, but no real rust thanks to the desert climate.

Then there was the smell. Ever walk behind a strip-mall Chinese restaurant on a hot day? The garbage rotting in the sun -- that was the exact smell that hit me as I drove deeper into North Vegas. I would've loved to have rolled the windows up, but the mercury was already past 100, and as I mentioned before, the Beast's air conditioning was theoretical at this point. I resloved that if I ever tracked down Laura Mills and got paid, the first thing I was doing was getting the damn AC fixed.

I passed out of the residential areas and found myself in what looked like a broken-down business park, one that had been built about 10 years ago. It looked like some developer had optimistically thought he could turn this neighborhood into a business zone, but I doubt even one corporation moved in. The place looked completely abandoned, and I double-checked my notes. I was in the right place, but I was the only one there as near as I could tell.

I killed the engine and sat back to take a look at the place. Just because I didn't see anyone right away didn't mean the place was really abandoned, so I opened the 20-ounce bottle of Pepsi I'd bought with the map and settled back into the Beast's rapidly-warming leather front seat.

First thing I noticed was that the entire park was surrounded by a high, chain-link fence. That wasn't too surprising, really, nor was the barbed wire on top of the fence. Abandoned or not, whoever still owned the place probably didn't want homeless folks crashing there, or opportunistic thieves stealing copper pipes and wiring out of the walls. Even if the place wasn't pulling in any money, it didn't make sense to just let the ghetto swallow it back up again.

I wasn't there too long -- maybe five minutes -- when the first security car looped around the parking lot. It came from behind the furthest of the three buildings, driving slowly along with its windows up and its lights off. Again, that wasn't too out of the ordinary on its own. Some of the above-mentioned homeless people or thieves might try to get around the gate, so hiring some minimum-wage security was a reasonable investment. The car took about three or four minutes to pass by where I was parked, and didn't even really slow down as it drove by.

Ten minutes later, either the same car or an identical one made another loop through the parking lot. This one, though, sped up as soon as I saw him (and, I'm guessing, as soon as he saw me). His lights went on as he hammered toward me, so there was little doubt he was coming to see why the hell I was just hanging out there. Time to go. I started the Beast and tore away from the curb.

I figured the security car would just come up to the gate and stop when he saw I was leaving, probably take down my license plate number and keep it on file. That wasn't the case. He didn't even slow down as he approached the gate, which rattled open for him. He shot out into the street and jammed on the gas -- and if I wasn't sure that he was after me, the gunfire that started up a second later sure convinced me.

I didn't know who the hell these guys were, but no way were they going to be able to hang with me. In addition to driving a faster car (they were driving what looked like a Taurus), I knew I was a better driver. Rent-a-cops, no matter how good, just cannot hang with a fully trained stunt driver. No way in hell.

I chanced a look through the rearview as I hammered the gas pedal. There were two of them, one driving, the other leaning out the window with either an M-16 or an AR-15. The way I was juking the Beast in and out of oncoming traffic, the guy with the assault rifle was having a hard time hitting me. I heard bullets crack against the pavement, slam into a bus shelter on the side of the road, tag other cars... but the Beast was fine.

I was in the ghetto, and I hadn't seen a cop since I came into that neighborhood. The security car, like most, was painted up sort of like a police car, but different enough that no one would mistake it for one. That's the only reason I can figure that someone else opened fire on it as I passed a block of apartment buildings crumbling in the desert sun -- that whoever was shooting knew these weren't real cops, and were therefore open game. I guessed it was some gangbanger or criminal badass wanting to take a chunk out of these guys, but the motive didn't matter. Someone was helping me out, whether he intended to or not.

I would have been able to lose the rent-a-cops on my own, but it turned out I didn't have to. The mysterious shooter -- my benefactor, I guess -- put several rounds in the hood of the Taurus, and the thing stopped dead as I rocketed on back toward the relative safety of the Strip.

As I eased the Beast down to the normal speed limit -- no sense in getting pulled over by a real cop now that I was heading back to civilization -- I tried to plan my next move. That all depended on the information I had been able to piece together so far, which didn't take long at all to go through. I had a missing woman, Laura Mills, 31 years old. Her listed employer was Umbra Dynamics in Santa Monica, a company that claimed never to have heard of her. She was pulled over and detained on a failure to appear, but her bail had been set astronomically high for unknown reasons. Her brother -- I assume -- was shot down in a carjacking in Compton on his way to... what? And she had gone to Las Vegas for... what?

Like I said, didn't take long. Didn't much help me plan any next moves, either. But from the sweat soaking my shirt thanks to the heat, my next move was going to have to be a shower and a change of clothes. The Imperial Palace it was. I piloted the Beast into the parking garage and trudged off to my room.

It wasn't as I'd left it. Oh, the duffel bag was still haphazardly thrown on one of the queen beds, sitting open and rifled through. The dirty clothes from yesterday were still kicked into a pile in the corner of the room. But when I left, there wasn't a little guy in a black suit sitting in the armchair across from the door. Same little guy in a black suit who had kicked my ass a few hours ago. Looked like I wasn't the only one who knew that trick with the card readers on the door.

"Your persistence borders on psychosis, my friend," the little guy said, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his coat. His voice had a thick accent -- somewhere from Eastern Europe, I guessed.

"First, we're not friends. Second, you have ten seconds to get the fuck out of my room before I --"

"Reach for the Sig Sauer in the left inside pocket of your jacket?" he asked, smiling. "I would not suggest that."

The little guy nodded down at my chest, and I chanced a look. A little red dot was floating just above my heart. Shit.

"Now, please, sit. We need to have a conversation."

Though I knew there was a sniper somewhere outside waiting to put a large-caliber bullet through my chest, I seriously considered going for the Sig anyway. Sighing, I sat on the bed across from the little guy.

"Fine. Let's talk."

Chapter Six

2011-05-24T23:26:00.000-07:00

"How'd you find her so fast?"

Quentin leaned back on the couch and kicked his bare feet up next to the huge monitor. I noticed then that his toenails were in desperate need of clipping. Ugh.

"Your buddy Mike kept a carbon of her credit card. I traced the number," Quentin said with a grin. "Looks like I wasn't the first one to do it, either."

"LAPD?" I asked.

"No, but I expect they will before long. This was another hacker -- one who was good enough to cover his tracks, but not completely. I could still see that he ran the card, but not who he was or where he ran it from."

"So, better than you or worse than you?" I asked.

"Man, no one is better than me," he said, his grin getting wider. "Got time for a beer?"

"Nah. I should probably get on the road, find a hotel in Vegas. Crash out and start hitting the pavement in the morning."

"If you're looking for a hotel, I suggest Caesars. Looks like your girl checked in there last night."

"I'm on my own dime until I catch her, and I think one night at that place would max out my credit card," I said, shaking my head.

"I could massage the system a bit. Book you in and charge it to someone else."

"No thanks."

"Then Imperial Palace? Pretty close by, tons cheaper."

"Yeah. I'll do that."

Quentin typed on his keyboard for a few more seconds, then looked up at me.

"Done. Just give them your name when you arrive. Guaranteed the room with your Visa."

"How do you know my credit card number?" I asked.

Quentin just grinned again.

"Have a good time in Vegas, big guy."

* * *

I don't go to Las Vegas often, and there's a good reason for that. It's not that I hate gambling or anything -- I was brought up in a pretty damn liberal household, even though my dad was a cop (a traditionally conservative profession), so gambling wasn't demonized as the Devil's Work. No, I stay away from Vegas because I love gambling, and worse, I used to think I was pretty good at it.

I wasn't, of course. I was just on a lucky streak for a little while there, and when it ended, man, it *ended.* But you just try telling a gambling junkie his lucky streak is over. It's never over, man, it's just stepped out for a smoke. It's just around the corner, and if you keep playing, it'll come right back.

When I got out of the hospital, my buddy Ethan took me to Vegas to cheer me up. I was still in a wheelchair at that point, and I learned something interesting on that trip. A guy in a wheelchair who's winning? Well, he's good luck, and everyone in the casino crowds around him, buys him drinks, and treats him like the earthly embodiment of Our Lord and Savior himself. Nothing's quite the self-esteem boost for a cripple than the attention you get when you're winning.

A guy in a wheelchair who's losing, though? Well, that's just sad. Sad and unlucky. When that dude wheels his way up to the Blackjack tables and starts hemmhoraging money, people get up from the table like he's coughing up Bubonic Plague instead of red chips. No drinks bought for you then, apart from the ones the casino gives you for losing. You'll get nice and hammered off loser drinks, but your lucky streak stays outside, smoking pack after pack of cowboy killers until you finally lose every scrap of cash you came with and start doing the math on what your car is worth.

So, yeah, I usually stay away from Las Vegas.

After I left Quentin's, I headed back to my apartment to throw some things into a duffel bag. Before Mr. Hernandez tried to perforate me with an AK-47 yesterday, I'd been doing laundry, so I had a dryer full of clean clothes. I grabbed indiscriminately and stuffed most of the dryer's contents into my bag, then hefted it over my shoulder. After that, all I had to do was lock the door and ask Eammon to grab my mail while I was out. I want to buy a dog, but I have to go out of town kind of often and always on short notice... so for now, it's just me.

It normally takes about four hours to drive from Los Angeles to Vegas, and I was leaving after dark, so I didn't expect any delays. A straight-through drive would put me in about three in the morning, which would be an odd time to check into a hotel in any city other than Las Vegas. There, it was pretty much routine.

I loaded up the CD changer in the trunk with some decent, loud road-trip stuff: Wu-Tang Forever, Pantera's Far Beyond Driven, Antichrist Superstar by Marilyn Manson, Evil Empire by Rage Against the Machine, Unpredictable by Mystikal, and the old road-trip favorite Nevermind by, of course, Nirvana. Yeah, my musical tastes are all over the map, but for a long drive on zero sleep, nothing beats loud and agressive. I made a stop for gas and coffee and hit the road just before 11 p.m., and traffic was almost nonexistent.

I rolled into Vegas just after three in the morning, and pulled up to the Imperial Palace parking garage with "People of the Sun" blaring from the huge, aftermarket speakers I'd put in the Beast back when I was making movie cash. After I parked and checked in, I hit the bed and was out cold in seconds.

* * *

In June, there are only a couple of safe times to move around Las Vegas. Late night, when the heat is usually bearable, provided you drink enough water; and early in the morning, before the sun starts its daily quest to fry humans on the sidewalk like ants under a magnifying glass. I slept for about four hours, so I was dressed and on the street by 7:30. I ate a hot dog as I walked, promising myself I'd get some health in my diet as soon as I tracked down Laura Mills.

Hotel employees aren't supposed to give out any information about their guests. If you don't believe me, call a hotel where your friend is saying and ask what room he's staying in. Unless the clerk is a complete idiot or just an asshole who's trying to get himself fired, he won't tell you -- he'll offer to connect you with your friend's room instead. I could always just talk to the guy at the front desk, tell him who I was and why I was there, but I didn't want to count on him helping me out of a sense of "what's right." Besides, I'd seen a picture of Laura Mills, her mug shot from her file.

She was pretty, even in the mug shot. And if someone looked good in a mug shot, chances are that person was stunning in real life. If the guy behind the counter was a heterosexual male with a pulse, he'd send me to the wrong room, then call Laura and warn her the second I was out of sight.

Nope, if I was going to get any information out of the hotel staff, I'd have to be sneaky about it. And, fortunately, Nevada was one of those places I could be sneaky. I once tracked down a bail jumper in New Orleans, and Louisina requires bounty hunters to wear a uniform when they're looking for people -- kind of kills the element of surprise. Nevada, like California, has no such law, and no one ever told me I couldn't lie my ass off to get the information I needed. So that's what I was going to do.

The kind of cool thing about Las Vegas is that it's a very on-demand town. If you want something sent up to your room, chances are very good there's a service that specializes in exactly that thing you want. Feeling a little sick and need a doctor sent to you? That's an easy one. Want someone to prepare you a Louisana-style Creole dinner in your room? Yeah, they can do that, too.

Of course, no one's going to buy that I'm a doctor, or probably not even a chef. But there is one thing they'll buy, and probably send me up without hesitation. It's a little degrading, but we're talking about quite a bit of money here. That, and finally getting some information on this asinine quest I seem to have gotten myself involved in. And it's another one of those areas where being a big, in-shape dude comes in handy.

"Hi," I said to the young, thin guy behind the desk at Caesar's Palace. "I'm here to see Laura Mills. I'm the exotic dancer she ordered."

I made sure to crack a big, goofy smile when I said it. Like I thought, the guy gave me her room number without even a moment's hesitation. Ten seconds later, I was navigating my way through the sprawling monument to gaming and consumerism that is Caesar's Palace.

Laura Mills' room was in the Forum Towers, a relatively new part of the complex. It was a suite, and probably cost more than a week in the room I slept in last night. Since it was a newer room, it had those brand-new card readers on the door rather than keys. Those things almost make my job too easy. I'm not going to say too much about how to beat those locks here -- no point in disseminating criminal information -- but I was in the room in twenty seconds.

It was only 7:30 in the morning, and it was Las Vegas. I was almost sure to find my target passed out, but no one was in the room. There was a small suitcase on one of the queen beds, though, and some stuff scattered around the bathroom, so I knew someone was staying there, at least. I took a look through the suitcase -- clothes, in a size that would probably fit Laura Mills (if the height and weight on her driver's license was accurate). Minimal cosmetics and toiletries in the bathroom. Other than that, the room looked clean, at least at first glance.

Looking further, though, I found a manilla folder between the mattress and box spring on the bed furthest from the door.

"Boo-ya," I whispered to myself as I opened the folder and flipped through the papers inside.

The pages inside -- there were six of them -- didn't make any sense to me. They looked like technical documents or blueprints of some kind, but the writing was all in Chinese or Korean or something. And I couldn't tell what I was looking at just from the drawings. It just looked like a bunch of vertical and horizontal and diagonal beams arranged into various shapes, some of them with a ball in the middle. No clue.

As I was putting the papers back into the folder, a business card fell out onto the floor. It didn't have a name or a business on it -- just an address and a phone number. The address was in North Las Vegas, and the phone number had a Vegas area code. I jotted them both down on a pad in my pocket, then put everything back and headed back out into the hotel.

You know that kind of paranoia you get when you're doing something you know you're not supposed to? Like when you were drinking with your buddies underage, and your head snapped around at every noise? I'm convinced that it's not necessarily paranoia, but hyperawareness -- what atheletes and elite soldier types call "flow state." Paranoia plays tricks with you, but the flow state just might save your life.

It's pretty accurate to say I was in flow state the whole time I was doing my little breaking and entering routine. It didn't leave off when I left the room and headed back out into the hotel, either, a fact I'm sure saved my life.

When I closed the door to Laura Mills' room, I wasn't the only person in the hall. There was a white guy about five foot eight coming down the hall towards me, dressed in a black suit and a black silk shirt buttoned up to the throat. Nothing odd about that on the surface, as he could have just been a high roller coming back after a late night. He glanced at me as he approached, and I nodded and smirked as I walked toward him, heading back to the casino floor and the exit. I was still in that hyperaware frame of mind when the two of us passed in the hall, so I felt him reach inside his coat before I saw it, and I reacted by ducking low and driving my shoulder into his midsection.

His gun bounced on the carpet, and I kicked it down the hall as he swung a right hand toward my head. I dodged, but not fast enough -- the first two knuckles of his right hand connected with my skull just above my temple, and I saw flashes. The guy hit like a runaway pickup truck. Thankfully, I can hit hard, too. I smashed him in the nose, knocking him onto the floor, then reached into my pocket and pulled out my Sig Sauer. I trained it on him, and he put his hands up.

"Stay right there," I growled.

"Not going anywhere, Chief," he said with a grin. His left hand twitched, and suddenly my eyes and nose were on fire.

By the time I blinked away the pepper spray, he was gone.

Chapter Five

2011-05-15T23:00:00.000-07:00

I tried to get Mike on the phone again, to let him know I was following the BMW into Compton, but service sucked in this part of town. My battery was circling the drain, so I'm sure that didn't help, either.

Well, no problem there, I thought. At least he won't wonder where you went. He'll probably see it on the news.

My brain, apparently, is a pessimist.

The BMW crawled further into Compton, where it kind of stuck out like a sore thumb. I knew we were in a bad neighborhood when my car blended in quite a bit more than a model-year BMW in Los Angeles. Still, the BMW had dark, tinted windows, and I was riding around in the twilight with my windows down. Damn broken air conditioning.

I couldn't imagine what a 30-year-old white guy from Long Beach would be doing in Compton, much less when it was getting dark outside. Usually, a guy going to the ghetto meant drugs, but something told me that wasn't the issue here. No, he was here for something else, and I'd have to follow him to figure out what.

And the following part wasn't exactly easy. There were few cars on the road as we drove through the residential neighborhoods -- just me and him, really. And though my car might have blended a little better down here than his, it had to become pretty obvious to the guy that someone was tailing him. If he didn't think that, he was an idiot. Still, he made no attempt to speed up or to lose me, so I don't know -- maybe he was stupid. I didn't get the chance to ask him.

I do know that he should have rolled through that stop sign. It was dark enough out now that the BMW's headlights switched on, and I turned on the Beast's, as well. As the BMW slowed to a stop, another, much older BMW shot into the intersection in front of it and slammed on the brakes. Two men got out of the older Beamer, and another appeared out of the darkness on the driver's side. They all had guns, two .45s and a 12-gauge shotgun. One of the guys from the old BMW pointed his pistol in my direction while the other two pulled the white guy out of his vehicle.

"Just stay cool and you ain't gonna get shot," one of the carjackers growled at the white guy, who was on his back on the pavement.

"Please... I need my car. I have somewhere I need to be," the white guy pleaded.

"Shut up and stay down," one of the other thugs warned.

"Hey, you want the Buick, too?" the thug with his gun trained on me yelled.

"Nah. Can't do much with that piece of shit," the one with the shotgun -- my guess, the leader -- said.

"Look, I can pay you," the white guy said, standing up from the pavement.

"Stay cool!" the carjacker with the 12-gauge yelled.

"I have the money right here --"

The white guy reached into his jacket, and the 12-gauge jacker made sure it was the last thing he'd ever do. Even loaded with slugs, the 12-gauge turned the guy's torso into ground beef in a split second. I knew I was next -- no point in leaving witnesses -- so I threw the Beast into reverse and stomped hard on the gas, rocketing backwards even as bullets started flying. One cracked through the windshield on the passenger side just as I whipped the Beast into a wild J-turn and shot down a side street.

* * *

There was no thought of calling the police this time. No thought of reporting this dead body, at least not yet. My only thoughts were ones of survival, fired into my reptile cortex in quick, brutal bursts. Drive. Don't crash. Lose them. I was a witness, and I knew they'd be after me as soon as they could manage it. I pulled out my Sig Sauer and thumbed off the safety as I jammed the gas pedal to the floor.

The Beast was a great-looking car, and it was fast in its day, but its day was almost thirty years ago. The '88 BMW could probably catch it, and the brand-new one could smoke it easily. Worse, these guys had to know the neighborhood a lot better than I did. My only chance was to head directly for the freeway, open the Beast up as much as it would go, and hope they'd give up after we got out of Compton.

I made it to the freeway without seeing another set of headlights. No gunshots, either. As I hammered the Beast up the onramp, I realized that no one was following me, but I wasn't going to push my luck and head back in. No way to tell where the dead guy was headed now anyway. The trail had gone cold as soon as the guy in the BMW had hit the ground.

It should have been time to give up. Nothing was worth this kind of hassle, having all my leads vanish as soon as I found them. And two dead bodies on a case was two more than my limit. But I never said I was smart -- I just said I was big. Now I wanted nothing more than to know what the fuck was going on, and I was going to find out. I'd mentioned earlier that I had other tricks up my sleeve, and I was going to use them.

Problem was, some of them were on the ragged edge of legal. And the other ones... well, they weren't even close to legal at all.

* * *

Quentin lived in a house in Silver Lake that, from the outside, really looked like shit. The lawn was patchy, overgrown in some places and dirt in others. He had a 1986 Chevy Celebrity with a busted-out back window in the narrow driveway and boards over most of the front windows. There were plant pots along the front porch, but most of them were filled with dirt. Only one had a plant in it, a snake plant with brown, drooping leaves. I think it got watered only when it rained.

The house's outside appearance, though, was carefully crafted, or so he once told me.

"The amount of gear I have in here, man -- worth several hundred thousand dollars on the black market. I'd hate if someone thought the house looked too nice and decided to break in to see what I had in here."

Truthfully, I just think Quentin was too lazy to go outside and maintain his property, but whatever. The guy could get shit done, and that's what I needed right now.

I called his cell phone as I drove into the neighborhood. That was protocol. You didn't just roll up on Quentin's house and knock on the door, not unless you wanted to open it to find him waiting with a shotgun pointed at you. Apart from being lazy, Quentin was paranoid as all hell, probably because of the sheer amount of quasi-legal and illegal shit he was up to in there.

"Come around the back door, brother," he told me when I called. "And try to be quiet this time. Neighbor's dog is all sorts of keyed up tonight."

I parked the Beast along the street and locked it, though any truly determined thief could just probably tap on the windshield where the bullets had cracked it and get in that way. I walked through the weeds and dirt to the back fence, carefully opened the gate, and crept toward the back door. The dog Quentin was so worried about was sitting happily on the other side of the chain link, panting and wagging her tail at me. She was maybe twenty pounds on a good day.

I knocked softly on the back door, and it opened almost immediately. Quentin was standing there in a pair of jeans, a Metallica T-shirt, and no shoes. He had a Glock .23 in his right hand, and he looked all around before looking at me.

"All right, man. Get in here. Quick."

You know how some people are insane, but it's kinda cute? Eccentric, I think, is the word. Quentin's about a tick above that -- no longer cute, but mostly harmless, despite the several guns he had stashed around his house.

As I stepped into the crumbling three-bedroom ranch-style house, a blast of uncomfortably chilly air hit me. This was normal for Quentin's place -- he had his air conditioner running 24-7. He'd even strategically placed a couple of window-box units around the house in addition to the central air to help keep some of the hot spots cool. I guessed the temperature was somewhere around 55 degrees, and as a local, I just wasn't used to people keeping their houses this cold. It was like walking through the frozen section at a supermarket.

"So what brings you by tonight, as if you ever just drop in socially?" Quentin asked, closing the door behind me and closing one, two, three deadbolts.

"I need some help tracking someone," I said, holding up Laura Mills' file folder with my left hand.

"Right. How long have they been in the wind?" He asked, taking the file folder and leading me into the living room.

"Less than 48 hours," I said, looking around at the thirty or forty computer towers humming away all the way around the baseboards. It was a bit warmer in this room, thanks to all the working machines.

"OK. Let's see what we can do, here," Quentin said, flopping down on the couch and typing into one of his machines. A huge monitor in the center of an ancient, heavy wooden coffee table flickered to life, and I tried to find some surface to sit on. I was prepared for this to take a while.

Turns out, it didn't even take five minutes. I was just clearing off what appeared to be a footstool to sit on when Quentin looked up from his monitor.

"You feeling lucky?" he asked.

"Not particularly."

"Too bad. Looks like you're headed to Las Vegas."

Chapter Four

2011-04-25T20:48:00.000-07:00

I didn't really like dealing with the police much past "here's your guy," but now I'd had to deal with them twice in one day. I was out of Eric's precinct, but he called the right people and sent them my way. I hung out with the dead guy for a few minutes until two uniformed cops and one guy in plainclothes showed up.

The guy in plainclothes took my name and address and statement. I told him why I had broken into the place, and he nodded his head.

"Yeah, same warrant came up on her when I ran this place. Strange. Failure to appear doesn't usually connect so quick to murder," he said.

"You think it's murder, then?"

"Hey, that's a question for the crime scene guys. But first impressions? Yeah, looks like."

I'd had the same thought, but I had no training or experience to back it up. In fact, I realized as the plainclothes cop handed back my ID, this was the first time I'd actually seen a dead body. I expected to react differently, to feel something... anything, really. Disgust, fear, sadness, something. But it was just a dead guy on the floor. I didn't end up feeling one way or another about it. That should probably bother me.

"Um, you need anything else from me, officer?" I asked.

"Nah. Just make yourself available if I have any more questions, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Here's my card. This your cell number on yours?"

"Home number. Just got a new cell," I told him, grabbing my card back and quickly writing my cell number on the back.

"Right. Probably won't need anything, but never hurts to be able to get a hold of you, right?"

"Fair enough, Detective," I looked at his card, "O'Neill."

I put the card in my jacket pocket and headed back outside.

I knew the next step, as this isn't the first time I've turned a simple trace-and-retrieve into a police situation. My part was over -- time to walk away and hope another one came up before I had to buy groceries or pay the power bill.

And that would have been the smart move. I mean, trying to track down Laura Mills now, while the police were looking for her as a person of interest in a murder? That would be dumb. I make a wrong move there, and I get in trouble. If I'm lucky, some of my police sources just stop talking to me. If I'm unlucky, I get arrested for obstructing a police investigation, get my licenses pulled, and have to go find yet another new job -- and I think I've exploited all of the good "big scary dude" jobs out there.

I'm also a guy who's now gladly taken on two careers that put him in situations that could easily kill him, so it's probably not hard for you to figure out that I'm not great at making the smart move.

Most times I go looking for someone, they're either at their home or work address, even those people who are actively running from me. Stick around a felon's house long enough, and he's bound to turn up. A lot of people will tell you it's because criminals are stupid, but that's not it. I mean, some of them are, obviously. But not all of them. It's just that most people have lives they have to get on with.

Even a lot of the criminals I track have to hold down day jobs, and if they know I'm looking for them, sometimes they'll drop in at work to pick up some money owed or let the boss know they need to be out for a while. But staking out their homes is so much better, because most people don't have much of a support system in place -- they always end up needing something from the house, or simply somewhere to sleep at night. They try to sneak in, of course, but it's usually pretty easy to spot them. After all, if they were good at sneaking around, they probably wouldn't have gotten caught in the first place.

But there are some people who don't show back up at their own houses, and thanks to the dead body on the floor, it looked like Laura Mills was going to be one of those people. It didn't happen as often, but I had ways of finding those people, too. Mike was thorough in getting information out of his clients, which helped a lot. The next step was about as mundane as you think it was -- check with the two references Mike made Laura fill in on his paperwork. One was a local, a guy who lived in Long Beach. He was first on the list.

On the way, I gave Mike a quick call to let him know what was up. He didn't have a problem with me trying to find Laura Mills before the cops did. It was my job, after all. Besides, something was starting to look a little off for both of us. The combination of the ridiculously high bail, the dead guy in the apartment, and the girl at the office claiming not to know her co-worker... all of it added up to something, but neither of us could figure out what.

I don't get over to Long Beach often, partially because it annoys me. All of these new, thin, million-dollar houses going up on streets named "Boathouse Lane" and "Smuggler's Cove." Guh. Long Beach used to be cool, but it's getting... I don't know, hip? Doesn't sound like there should be a difference there, but there sure is.

The address was in one of those new developments, a place called Spinnaker Bay. Saying that the Beast looked out of place rolling through that neighborhood was an understatement and a half, and I was sure someone would call the cops the second I got out of the car. I'd have to make this quick.

The house was on Parson's Landing. See? Told you it was that kind of place. It looked like something I wouldn't pay to live in, a couple of huge cardboard boxes stacked together and stuccoed over. There were two cars out front, a BMW 7-series and an Infiniti Q45. The guy I was looking for was named Roger Mills. Same last name usually meant brother or father -- women didn't usually list their ex-husbands as references on our paperwork.

Brother was good. People went to their siblings for help on the run, but usually not their parents. I'm guessing that, by the car choices, I was dealing with a sibling rather than a parent -- they were both what young, rich guys considered "cool." Also, both cars in the driveway was a good sign, as it meant someone was most likely home. I parked the Beast along the curb and looked around. No one was out on the street, so I hopped out of the car, walked quickly up to the front door, and rang the bell. A young woman, tall, red-haired, and attractive, answered.

"Um. . . yes?"

"Hi. I'm looking for Roger Mills. Is he around?" I said, flashing a smile and keeping my hands at my side. It wasn't easy to look nonthreatening at my size, but I was going to make every attempt.

"Yeah. . . he's at the office late tonight," she said, looking me over while backing away from the door slightly. "Can I tell him who stopped by?"

Two cars in the drive, closed garage. The guy was home, and I knew it, but pushing it -- especially in this neighborhood -- would land me in jail for the night and effectively kill my investigation before it really started.

"Sure. My name's Jake Harris. Would you give him this and have him call me as soon as he can? It's in regards to Laura Mills."

I quickly scrawled my cell number on my card and handed it to her. She looked it over, then looked back up at me with a raised eyebrow.

"His sister? What kind of trouble is she in?"

"I'm sorry, I can only discuss that with Mr. Mills. Would you give him that and have him call me?"

"I'll tell him."

"Thanks much," I said, flashing the smile again and backing down the front steps.

He wasn't going to call anytime soon, and I knew it. My best bet was to hang outside the house until he went for his car, let him lead me to wherever Laura was hiding. That was the best plan, but hanging out in this neighborhood. . . wasn't going to happen. I stuck out like a stripper in a Pentacostal Church.

Mike could sit on him without attracting too much attention. His two-pack-a-day habit aside, he looked pretty clean-cut, and he drove a personality-free Lexus that would blend in in this neighborhood. Unfortunately, he was in Downtown L.A. -- half an hour in good traffic -- and that left this guy unwatched for way too long. He could slip out and vanish, and while tracking him wasn't the only trick I had up my sleeve, it was my best bet right now.

In a movie, this is where the hero guy (me, I guess, by default) would place some high-tech tracking device on this dude's cars and hang back, follow him to where Laura Mills was hiding out, and solve the whole damn thing. There was a simplicity to action movies that I envied all the time in my current career. All it took was some hack writer being too lazy to write what would really happen, and in comes the awesome deus ex machina that resolves everything. But here, now, in the real world, I'd just have to get on the cell to Mike, try to get him out here as quick as possible, and hope the guy didn't vanish in between now and then.

* * *

I was at In-N-Out Burger -- pretty much the only place close by I didn't look too out of place. Actually, I was in the parking lot, shoveling a Double-Double into my face, when my phone rang. I set the remains of the burger on the dashboard, wiped my hands off on a napkin, and opened the flip on my phone.

"Yeah?" I said.

"Hey. I just got to the address you gave me. One car out front, a BMW," Mike said.

Shit. I should have stuck around in plain sight, a big, stupid spectacle making sure the guy didn't move, until Mike got there. Honestly, though, I hadn't thought of that until just this minute.

"All right, Mike. Thanks. Guy probably took off," I said, sighing.

"Hang on a minute. Someone's getting into the BMW. Male, dark hair. Could be your guy," Mike told me.

I tossed the remainder of my burger out the window and into the nearby trash can and started the engine.

"Keep on him," I said, "and let me know which way you're headed. I'll pick up the tail from you as soon as I can."

Mike handed him off to me just before the guy in the BMW got on the 405, and I tailed him after that. We took the 405 to 710, and just as the sun was going down, he pulled off the freeway into Compton.

My hopes of not getting shot at today were rapidly dwindling.

Chapter Three

2011-04-19T21:44:00.000-07:00

"You get some sleep?" Mike asked, checking to see that his client was out the door before pulling a Marlboro Light from the pack and lighting it.

"Not enough," I grumbled.

"Yeah, me either. It's never enough. But hey, this one'll be easy, I promise. Back by dinnertime, and with a good enough payout for you to take the next couple of days off."

I was interested immediately. Easy and a good payout don't usually go together. Easy usually means low bail, low bail usually means nonviolent. Good payout usually means I'm tracking down Charlie Manson or something.

"Who's the job?" I asked, straightening up in my chair across from Mike's desk.

"Girl -- lady, I guess -- from Century City. Failure to appear. Some reason, judge set her bail at half a million. She called me, posted right away."

"And she missed her court date?"

“Apparently so. Shouldn't have any problems tracking her down -- she's got a real job and everything. Probably just forgot. Got her info for you here," Mike said, tossing me a legal-sized envelope with a few sheets of paper folded inside.

"No psycho boyfriend, none of that, right?" I asked.

"Near as I know, man, she lives alone. Ain't even got a cat."

"All right. I wrap this up before sundown, you're buying the beer."

"Deal, man."

As I walked back out to the Beast, I opened the envelope. The first page was her bail agreement with Mike -- and on the first line, her name.

"OK, Laura Mills. Let's see where you're hiding," I mumbled as I started the car.

The file had both her home and work address, and nine times out of ten, that's where I found someone I was looking for -- at one of those two places. It being the middle of the day and all, I decided to start at the work address, a place called Umbra Dynamics. On her bail agreement, she'd listed her occupation there as "Staff Scientist." That was nice and vague.

The address on the form was down near the Santa Monica Pier, so I had a little bit of a drive. The weather was nice, a little hot maybe, but I drove with the windows down. Air conditioning in the Beast hadn't worked since two summers ago, and fixing it was a pretty low priority. I tossed a Slipknot disc into the in-dash CD changer and zoned out for most of the drive.

Umbra's office was a nondescript place, a tiny couple of rooms above a tourist shop. I walked the stairs and knocked on the door, which buzzed as it opened. A young woman in a sharp black business suit sat behind a desk. She seemed to be the only person there.

"May I help you?" she asked with a pasted-on smile.

"Yeah, I'm looking for a Laura Mills. She's employed here as a Staff Scientist?"

The young woman behind the desk blinked, but her smile remained firmly in place.

“I'm sorry. We don't have anyone here by that name."

"You're sure? You don't need to check a directory or anything?"

"I'm sure. Thank you for dropping by.”

So that was that, then. I don't claim to be a genius or a master of the study of human nature, but I knew I was being lied to. It was kind of hard not to notice when the person doing the lying was so bad at it. Plus, I knew Mike had verified this lady's employment as soon as he'd posted her bond. Mike took his business seriously, and he wouldn't have fucked this one up.

I'd try to figure out why this lady was giving me the runaround later. For now, it was off to the home address in Century City.

I'd never actually known anyone who lived in Century City. I mean, an address in that area came with a decently high income, but not celebrity-high, so none of the actors I'd met in my former career lived around there. And it wasn't stuntman or bounty-hunter low, either, so none of my current co-workers lived in the neighborhood, either. It was mainly lawyers and other professionals, I guess -- people I didn't have much in the way of day-to-day dealings with.

Still, though, Fox Plaza was in Century City, and MGM was headquartered there too, so I'd been there before for meetings and stuff. It wasn't too tough to find Laura Mills' apartment, on the ninth floor of a high-rise building that looked, well, like a lot of the other high-rises in the area. The info we had on her indicated she lived alone, so I was expecting her to answer the door. Most times, all it took was me showing up at someone's door for me to do my job -- the advantage of being big and scary, as Mike had explained to me when I'd come to meet with him after bailing Ethan out of jail.

"You've got a definite 'don't-fuck-with-me' look, man," he'd told me, lighting up a cigarette as I sat across from him. "Nine times outta ten, people will go with you just because you look like you'll kick the living fuck out of them if they don't."

"And the tenth time?" I'd asked.

"Well, tenth time can be a bitch. Every so often, you get one of these crazy motherfuckers who's all-fired sure he can take you down. That's when you have to actually be scary. Know how to shoot a gun?"

I did. I'd done a lot of weapons training for various jobs as a stuntman, and I'd gone out to the live-fire range for fun a couple of times.

"Good. Long as your criminal record is clean like you say, you shouldn't have any problem getting a conceal-carry license once you get certified."

He was pretty much right there. After a two-week training course, I had my license and all of my paperwork sorted out. And he was also right about me being able to pull most people in without having to really say or do much. Being big and scary-looking did tend to make people want to do what I told them. Just like the stuntman gig, I got the bounty-hunter gig more thanks to genetics than any kind of skill or talent.

I knocked on Laura Mills' door and waited about thirty seconds. Nothing. California law allows me to enter a client's home without permission if they've violated bail, so I decided not to knock again. Mike taught me how to pick most locks -- I didn't ask where he'd learned. Still, it only took me a couple of seconds to open the door to apartment 9G.

Even as I hacked the door, I was thinking about my next move. No answer to the knock meant she probably wasn't there, but it didn't mean she wouldn't be there at some point. I'd look around, try not to leave any sign I'd been there. See if I could find any evidence that she'd left, and if so, where. If I couldn't, I'd hang out outside, watch the place for a while, see if she turned up.

I knew she was gone as soon as the door opened, though. From the dried blood on the carpet, rust-brown rather than red, I guessed the guy on the floor had been dead for a couple of days. Laura's apartment had good ventilation, but I figured it wouldn't be too long before her neighbors noticed.

And that meant I had to call the police, though I really didn't want to do that.

It's not that I didn't care about the guy laying face down in a pool of his own dried blood on the floor. I mean, I kind of didn't -- I didn't know who the guy was or anything. But I didn't want to call the police simply because it meant that I probably wouldn't get to do my job now. It meant I probably wasn't going to get paid for this one.

Here's the thing -- cops aren't terribly worried about finding some people, and I don't mean any disrespect to the police when I say that. It's just that if you did something kind of minor, like skipping a court date, and you're not home when a patrol officer happens by. . . well, they're not going to run you down. They're not going to shake down your co-workers, your spouse, your parents, whatever, because they simply don't have the time and the resources to waste on your dumb ass. That's where people like me come in, and that's how I make my living.

But it's a different story when a dead body gets involved. Then the LAPD becomes a machine, an omnipresent network of individial law-enforcement professionals who all have their eyes open and looking for you. That's when they'll drop by your work every sixteen minutes, stake out your mom's apartment, and follow your husband around for days on end. They suddenly become way better at my job than me, and there are a lot more of them. My chances for getting paid look pretty grim at that point.

Of course, I couldn't *not* call them just because I still needed to make money. So, sighing, I pulled out my StarTac and dialed my buddy Eric.

Chapter Two

2011-04-12T20:04:00.000-07:00

It was just more than two years ago, March 18, 1996. A Monday. I'd heard friends from High School -- the ones who ended up working in offices -- complain about Mondays before, but to me, there wasn't anything necessarily different about them. Joys of a strange work schedule, I guess. I worked nights, days, weekends, everything in between, but I still managed to have plenty of time off.

We were in the mountains just north of Los Angeles, filming some shitty action movie that, to my knowledge, still hasn't come out. Probably never well. The script, what little I'd seen of it, was god-awful, filled with terrible cliched action-hero lines and a cartoonishly evil villan character with an army of goony henchmen. But it had a lot of money behind it, and a couple of big names. Big budget and big names on an action film usually means insane stunts, and that's what this one had going for it. And that, my friends, is where I came in.

I wanted to be a stuntman ever since my dad and I moved to Los Angeles when I was 13. Our first week in town, we'd seen some movie filming near one of the skyscrapers downtown, seen a stuntman taking a fall 20-odd stories and getting up to the applause of his crew. Right then and there, I knew what I wanted to do, and the family genetics for being big and scary-looking decided to help out with that one.

By 15, I towered over most of my classmates. I went Varsity in football and spent most of my time in the gym. I read up on all the literature I could find -- books, biographies, behind-the-scenes memoirs, you name it. By the time I graduated high school, I was ready. I knew every answer to every question anyone could ask me when I applied to live my dream.

They asked me nothing. They took one look at me, nodded, and told me I was in.

And for the next eight years, I got blown up, thrown off of buildings, shot at, beaten up, knocked through walls, hit by cars, and any other manner of grisly death you can think of, all for the cameras, of course. And I got paid pretty damn well to do it. It was a blast, and I got to travel all over the world and see all sorts of cool things.

See, it seems a guy like me is tailor-made for playing the large henchman type. The guy who never has any lines, just looks like a big obstacle for the hero of the movie until he gets taken out in any number of fantastic and mostly unbelievable situations. Producers liked me because I looked kind of huge next to the muscled-up action stars, and stunt coordinators liked me because I had my techniques down cold, was up for whatever they asked, and was willing to learn everything I could. A guy like me could work a lot, and I did. I also had the fortunate dual-training in stunt driving, so they got two for the price of one most times.

Which brings us to that Monday in March. We had a midafternoon call time, which was great because I got to sleep in, at my own house no less, and still have plenty of time to drive out to the shoot. Had breakfast with a couple of work buddies, and we piled into one of the waiting studio vans about 11:00 in the morning. We were in a pretty good mood, because my buddy Ethan and I got to get blown up and thrown through the air for today's shoot. Sad that we consider it fun, but we stunt guys are like that -- somewhat mentally deficient, I guess. We dig the dangerous ones, the ones where some actor will walk up to us after and go "man, that was nuts."

I lived for that look they had on their faces when they said that.

But that day, as with pretty much every day, there was a lot of waiting around first. A lot of prep work. The stuff we do might look death-defying in the movies, but we do enjoy, you know, living. Most of the stuff we did had been done thousands of times before in various combinations, and we knew how to do it as safely as possible. That meant checking and triple-checking all of the equipment, doing dry runs of the stunt, then going back and checking eight more times. The only thing better than pulling off an awesome, mindblowing stunt was doing it without so much as a papercut. Bonus points if we didn't even break a sweat.

Unfortunately, none of that was in the cards that day.

I remember setting up for the stunt. Ethan and I were going to be behind a car that exploded while the hero of the movie said hero-of-the-movie-type stuff. The explosion was supposed to blow us back and away -- we were both wearing rigs that would pull us on high-tension wires that someone would remove later in post-production. I remember the first A.D. calling "action," and then, for a few minutes, there's just this blank spot in my mind.

When I opened my eyes again, I was looking up at the desert sky. There was a lot of noise around me, a lot of movement. I rolled my head to the side and saw one of the actors, a little Scottish guy who wasn't exactly a big name but well on his way, sitting on the tailgate of the medic's ambulance getting his hands bandaged.

Shit, I thought. Something went wrong.

This was going to be a problem. Actors weren't supposed to get hurt -- it was on my boss, the stunt coordinator, to make sure of that. But the little Scottish guy hadn't even been in the shot. I remembered that. He was in a shot later in the day, but the last time I'd seen him, he'd been drinking coffee over at craft services.

While I was trying to figure out what happened, I decided to get up and ask some questions. Much as I tried, though, I couldn't make my legs move. I tried to look down at my feet, but my head movement seemed restricted to rolling from side to side.

"Shit. Look, Jake, I need you not to move, OK?" I heard a voice from my right. [P} I rolled my head that way and saw Bryan, one of our medics, crouched down beside me. From his face, I could tell I was messed up something bad.

"What happened?" I asked.

"Try not to talk. We're getting you to the hospital, but just stay still until then, OK?"

That's when I passed out again. I wouldn't find out until much later, but the stunt had gone terribly wrong. My rig hadn't activated when the explosion hit, and I was on fire. Then, the rig fired late and off-target, slamming me into the ground at high speed. I ended up with burns, cuts, bruises, and a concussion, but that was minor. I also ended up with a back that was broken in three places.

It was quite a while before I even got out of the hospital. Hell, it was quite a while before I was even conscious again. But the second I had my wits about me, I knew my career was going nowhere fast.

See, here's the thing. No one was going to come right out and say I wasn't going to work as a stuntman anymore. No one was even going to intimate that the accident had been in any way my fault. In fact, no one was going to say anything -- but everyone involved knew where this was headed. My injury had cost a ton in insurance. Lost time. Overtime. Bad press. I would eventually heal up all right, but the damage to my career was irreprable.

No one wanted to hire a stuntman who had cost his last production millions. Even if the producers could ignore that fact (and they couldn't), none of them would want to take the risk on a stuntman who'd had a terrible back injury. The spine is one of those things that never heals right, or so most people think. I feel fine most days, but I can definitely feel it when I do something I shouldn't. . . so I guess I agree with "most people" on that one.

Fortunately, productions carry really good insurance on stuntmen, pretty much for just such an eventuality. I was covered for my entire hospital stay, my physical therapy, my rehab time. But once that all ran out, I was down to my savings, which I'd mostly burned through in six months. I moved to a cheaper place, but the writing was on the wall by then: no studios were going to call. Find a new career, and find it now.

Which is when Ethan called me. He needed me to come bail him out of jail. Seems he'd gotten into a drunken brawl at a club on La Cienega. I pulled the rest of the cash out of my savings account, called a bail bondsman, and made my way out to the Parker Center jail. I didn't know then that the bail bondsman I'd called would turn out to be my boss, and more than that, my best friend.

The first thing I noticed about the bondsman was that he was a little guy, little and kind of pale. It was two in the morning, but he looked awake and sharp, his dark eyes barely blinking on either side of his thin nose. He smelled heavily of cigarette smoke, and had a styrofoam cup of coffee in one hand when he walked into the visiting area.

"Whoa. You're a big motherfucker, aren't you?" the bondsman said, looking up at me as he chugged from his coffee.

"Uh. . ." I started.

"You Jacob Harris?” he asked.

“Yeah. That’s me.”

“Hey. Mike Shaw, Ace Bail Bonds. Magistrate set bond for your buddy yet?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “No one’s really telling me much.”

“Hang out right here, big man.”

Mike vanished into the police station, and reemerged a couple of minutes later with a file folder.

“You’re all set, pal. Your guy Ethan’s being processed out now.”

“What do I owe you?” I asked.

“Two thousand. So what is it you do for a living, man?”

“Right now? Nothing.”

“Hm. You wanna drop the money by my office tomorrow.”

It wasn’t a question.

“I’ve got it with me now.”

“Tomorrow. Got an interesting proposition for you.”

Chapter One

2011-04-05T20:14:00.001-07:00

As the first bullets slammed into the side of the 1991 Chevrolet Caprice wagon, my thoughts weren't ones of fear or concern, really. Anger would be more accurate, though not anger at the guy doing the shooting. No, that would have made too much sense.

My exact thought in that moment? *$200. Seriously. I'm getting shot at for $200. Less after taxes.*

I wanted to just get the hell out of there and leave this one for the cops, who were probably already on their way. But if the cops got this guy, I didn't get paid. And rent was due three days ago.

The bullets were tearing right through both sides of the car, not even slowing down as they passed through the passenger and driver doors. Homeboy with the AK-47 must've thought I was an idiot to be hiding there. I was making myself as small as possible behind the driver's side tire. For a guy my size, that wasn't easy, but I wanted to keep all of the metal in the engine in between me and the guy with the gun as I tried to count bullet hits. When I got to 30, I popped my head up over the hood to see if I could get a visual on the guy.

The house I'd tracked Raymond Hernandez to had a deck about two, two and a half feet off the ground, and that's where he was standing. When I looked up, he was pulling the clip out of the AK, so I knew I only had a second or two. Thankfully, I'd pulled my Sig Sauer .40 the second the gunfire started, so I took aim and fired three shots, one right after the other. Left leg below the knee, right leg above the knee, right arm above the elbow. Pretty much what I'd intended.

Hernandez dropped the AK, and I was on him fast, clearing the four steps to his deck with one jump and tackling him to the ground. I had him on his stomach and cuffed in a couple of seconds. I stood up and tucked the Sig into my behind-the-back holster, then started digging in my jacket pockets for my phone.

"I'm bleeding, man," Hernandez complained from the deck.

"Good," I said.

I finally found the thing, a new StarTAC 85. It was smaller than my old phone by a bunch, and I kept losing it in my coat pockets. Of course, my coat's kind of huge, so that could be part of the problem. I opened the flip, and two of the five little signal lights were on, just enough to make a call.

"Don't you gotta read me my rights or something, man?"

"I look like a cop to you, jackass? Now shut up. I'm on the phone."

* * *

They took Hernandez away in an ambulance, and I got tossed politely enough into the back of a cruiser. I knew I was headed for the station in Echo Park, but I didn't know how long they were going to hold me there. If my buddy Eric was working tonight, I'd be out in an hour. If not, I'd be lucky to be on the street before daylight.

"Jacob Harris. This your correct address on your license, Mr. Harris?" the patrol cop asked through the open door. I wasn't cuffed, but they had my gun, my wallet, and my credentials.

"Yeah. Business address is on the conceal-carry," I told him.

"OK. Let me tell you what happens now, Mr. Harris. Whenever there's a shooting, we have to take you down to the station and interview you."

"Don't want to interrupt you, Officer, but I've done this before. I know the drill."

The patrol cop just nodded and closed the door. He was a young guy, looked like he was just out of high school. I outweighed him by a good hundred pounds. I could see when he first approached me a few minutes before that he thought I was going to be a problem -- I'm 6'5", covered in tattoos, and wearing a motorcycle jacket in L.A. in June.

But as soon as the squad cars rolled to a stop, I tried to make it clear I wasn't a threat. I put my hands on top of my head and got down on my knees in front of my gun, which was sitting on the pavement in front of me, clip out and slide pulled back. I had my wallet and concealed-carry permit in the front pockets of my jacket, and I identified myself as soon as the cops came near me. Like I told the Officer, not the first time I've done this.

Eric wasn't working tonight. It was some new guy, transferred in from Parker Center sometime in the last week, so I got to go through all of the red tape they could throw at me. When they were satisfied I wasn't a criminal and was in fact acting within the bounds of both the law and my chosen profession, they processed me out, handed me my gun and my paperwork, and booted me out the door into the dawning daylight.

My StarTAC had a dead battery, probably because I'd forgotten to shut it off when they'd taken me in. My car wasn't too far away, just the other side of MacArthur park, so I wasn't stranded or anything. I just needed to make a phone call first, make sure Mike had my money ready to go. According to my watch, it was almost seven in the morning, and my landlord would be looking for the overdue rent in an hour.

Mike's a good guy, don't get me wrong. But he tends to be a little forgetful at times, especially those times when it's financially advantageous for him to do so. Usually it doesn't bother me too much, but I got fairly raped on taxes this year, plus the Beast needed a new transmission. I hate coming up short, and this is the first time in two years I've done it.

Mike was straight. One of the desk cops at the Echo Park station had called him when I came in, checking to see if I did indeed work for him. He'd pressed some of his contacts a little, found I'd been the one to bring Hernandez in (sloppy though the job may have been), and hit up the ATM shortly after. My cash was on the barrelhead, so to speak.

It didn't take long to walk back to the Beast, my 1970 Buick Riviera. Me and the car were born the same year, and my dad and I had put it back together from a wreck while I was in high school. It took a fair amount of work to keep the thing running, but it's worth it. The Beast looks every inch of the badass ride it is, and it makes a world-ending noise when I start it up. Eats gas like a motherfucker, but gas is cheap. Besides, I fit in the driver's seat. That's not easy in some of the crap Detroit's putting out these days.

Mike's office is Downtown, in the shadow of the Parker Center, in a cluster of Bail Bondsmen's offices and convenience stores. I'm only in the office when I'm getting paid or grabbing an assignment. My somewhat fluid work schedule would give me plenty of time to spend on my other interests, if only I had any these days.

By now it's probably pretty obvious what I do for a living. Mike and his guys post bond on anyone who needs it, and most times, those people show up for their court dates or whatever. When they don't, though, that's when I get a call. And that's when I go looking through neighborhoods where you get shot at with Chinese-made AK-47s.

As I rolled down Los Angeles Street, Mike was standing near the curb smoking a cigarette. When he heard the Beast coming, he flicked the cigarette off into the street and stepped up to the curb. I pulled over, and he stuck his head in the passenger window, handing me a small stack of $20 bills and frowning.

"Wish it was more, man. You OK?"

"No holes, no bruises. Could use a nap."

"Sorry about that one, man. Nothing in that motherfucker's file to indicate anything more than a nonviolent felon. Ain't nobody thought he'd be tooled up like the goddamn National Guard."

"It's the job, Mike. I'm fine," I said, folding the $20 bills into my jacket pocket and nodding toward the street. "I've gotta get going."

"Yeah, your landlord. You told me. Hey, drop back by after. Got another one for you. Easy one this time, I promise."

"Will it keep?"

"Couple hours. Get some rest first."

Mike extricated himself from the window, and I headed to my appointment with a very agitated landlord.

* * *

My landlord's a guy named Eammon. Nice enough guy, but don't be a couple of days late on the rent. He'll turn from friendly to ice-cold in second and a half if he doesn't think he's going to get his money on time. Fortunately, I was only $100 short before last night's adventure. I gave him an extra $50, and it seemed all was forgiven.

Had a quick bite to eat -- Hot Pockets, which are god-awful but at least they don't take long to make -- and passed out for a few hours on the couch. I set the TV to turn on at noon and forced myself to get some sleep.

At 12:30, after a shower and a change of clothes, I was back on the road headed for downtown. I really didn't want to take another assignment so soon, but the $50 I had left to my name wasn't going to do a hell of a lot for me. Savings accounts. . . well, those were a thing of the past.

Might surprise you to learn this, but I wasn't always living this way. I had a career before this, and it was a hell of a lot of fun. But things happen, things you can't control or change no matter how much you want to. One bad break -- in my case, literally -- can flush your entire plan and send it swirling.

Everybody's got a sob story, though. I guess I'm no different, and mine is no worse than anyone else's. I can't complain too much -- I've got a roof over my head, I eat regularly, I've got a car and cable and all that stuff. I could be doing a lot worse, and the several homeless people I drive by on the way downtown remind me of that. And I'm not getting shot at every night, so I've got that going for me.

Still, I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss it. And while I was waiting for Mike to finish up with a client when I got to the office, I couldn't help but think of the day that brought it all to an end.

Fingers crossed...

2011-03-30T19:47:00.000-07:00

The sixth Twitter Novel Project will start on April 1. Of course, there are several big things coming along to throw a wrench into it: Internet at the house is still out, wife and I are moving to Dallas soon, etc., etc. However, I haven't let roadblocks stop me before, and I won't now.

Some things about this one:

It's a near-past novel, written in the first person.

I'm not enforcing a word-per-night minimum, nor am I forcing every day. The original intent behind both of those was to get me writing every night, but I've been doing that for years now regardless (I wrote an entire novel and a half on the back end of 200 Days, so output is less of a problem of late). I will, however, make sure that there are story updates at least five nights a week, and I'll let you know if I'm taking a night off here and there.

I'll be mostly writing it in the old-school way, Notepad to Twitter, but I might try some fun stuff like Google's voice-to-text and other oddities from mobile devices just to keep myself on my toes.

As per usual, comments and suggestions are not only welcome, but encouraged.

And that's about it, I think. Stay tuned to Twitter in the next couple of days, because stories are coming your way... again.

Cranking Away. . .

2011-03-08T23:20:00.000-08:00

On edits for the second 47 Echo book. But hey! New Tweet Book begins soon, probably April. Stay tuned!

Day Two Hundred

2011-02-17T21:31:00.000-08:00

Day 200: 17 Feb 2011

The rumbling continued as Ronan finally let out his laugh, a long, sick, almost soundless chortling. But when he stopped laughing, the rumbling stopped as well.

"Wait. . . that's it?" I heard Cassie mutter from right beside me.

I turned to look at her, Jason Black and Jared just behind her, all of them looking confused and not insubstantially underwhelmed. I admit, it did seem a bit anticlimactic -- but it wasn't over yet. I turned back to Ronan just in time to see him start twitching. His body jerked spasmodically, as if he was having a seizure while standing up. Then, slowly at first, I saw movement from his head.

Where his right eye had been, something was. . . twisting. Writhing. Just as I figured out what it was, it dropped out of his eye. When it hit the pavement, it started slithering right towards us.

It was a worm. A child of the God of the Land. It wasn't alone.

Ronan stopped twitching, and more worms started pouring out of his wrecked eye socket, out of his open mouth, out of his ears. There must have been hundreds of them, and they were all slithering along the street towards us and the people all around us.

And that's when the intersection of Las Vegas Boulevard and Flamingo Road exploded.

Purely on instinct, I dove hard to my left. A huge chunk of pavement smashed into the sidewalk right where I'd been standing. I checked on Cassie and Jared and Black -- all OK. The pavement had missed them, landing inches from Jared's wheelchair.

Then I saw him. He was kind of hard to miss, though. Taller than any building in sight, the God of the Land was halfway out of the crater in what used to be the center of The Strip. And from the roar that issued from the three mouths on his head, he was fucking angry.

I could hear Jason Black on his radio. He was calling his chopper, having them come in for a strafing run, but I knew it wouldn't have any effect. Normal bullets? Please. They'd feel like snowflakes to the God of the Land.

"Black! Skip the gun run! Have your chopper land on the top of The Mirage!"

Black looked at me, thought for a second, and nodded. He relayed the order through his radio, and we were on the run. Well, Jared was wheeling, technically. But he was faster than any of us.

We could hear the havoc behind us -- buildings smashed. People screaming. Fires, gunshots. But we kept running.

The power was still on in the Mirage, so we took the elevator all the way. The Black Hawk was on the roof, and we piled in, Cassie and I easily lifting Jared in his wheelchair. The chopper spun up quickly. We were airborne in seconds.

"So what do we do here?" Cassie asked as we climbed.

We could see everything from the air. The Bellagio and about half of Caesar's Palace were rubble. The God of the Land was steamrolling his way up The Strip, headed North. My guess was Area 51.

"I can call in a nuclear strike," Black said. "That'll stop him."

"What about evacuating everyone?" Cassie said.

"Look outside, kid. Does it look like that's going to be a problem?"

Black was right on that end, it seemed. Everyone who could move on the ground was headed away from the God of the Land. Not that it mattered -- he was killing thousands. "It won't work," Jared said. "He can withstand heat and pressure inside molten rock. A nuke won't kill him."

"So what do we do?" It was me who asked that one.

"We run," Jared said. "We get someplace where I can figure this out."

"And what about Vegas? Nevada? The rest of it?" Cassie asked.

"Nothing we can do, except maybe quarantine," Black said. "I'll make some calls."

As Black headed to the front of the chopper, I looked outside again. Most of The Strip was unrecognizable already -- he worked fast. We kept right on going past Area 51, out to. . . I don't know where we're headed.

You know what my fortune cookie said today? Today is going to be a perfect day.

Fucking fortune cookies.

END

Day One Hundred and Ninety-Nine

2011-02-16T21:19:00.000-08:00

Day 199: 16 Feb 2011

I'd just gotten back from work tonight -- late flight into Vegas, 20 minutes in traffic -- when Black called. I hadn't even put down my fucking keys yet.

"Cassie, it's Jason Black," he said, though I knew his voice cold by now.

"Yeah?"

"Is Travis with you?"

He was, and I said so.

"Good. We're getting more seismic readings. We need to investigate."

"Dude. I haven't even had dinner yet, yo."

"Sorry. Can't be helped. They're extremely localized this time, and they're in town."

"Here in Vegas?"

"Right under The Strip. Las Vegas Boulevard and Flamingo Road. Jared and I are on a chopper right now."

"Fine. We'll meet you there," I said, sighing.

"What's up?" Travis asked as I hung up the phone.

"Work," I said, shrugging. "I'll explain on the way."

Twenty more minutes in traffic -- The Strip was packed tonight. We finally just parked near Harrah's. Walking was going to be quicker, anyway. As we got closer to the intersection Black had indicated, the crowd thinned out just a bit. And as we made it to the street, we saw why.

There, standing in the middle of the road, was a man with his arms outstretched. He looked familiar -- big black guy. I knew I'd seen him before. He was missing his right eye.

"Holy shit," I managed to cough.

"That's Ronan."

"Who?"

"New Orleans. He led me up to Thule, but he turned on us. He was a. . . uh. . . what do you call it? Worshiper of the God of the Land."

"He got away?" Travis asked.

"No," Jason Black said, walking up behind us. "I shot him. Right in the fucking face with an M4. He should be dead."

"He is dead," Jared said quietly, rolling up next to Black. "Very dead."

"Then how --" I started, but Ronan turned to us then and smiled widely.

"Hello, friends," he said, his voice low and raspy. Like his throat was filled with gravel. He dropped his arms back down to his sides, and the ground started to shake around us. Windows shattered, and car alarms went aggro.

"What the fuck is happening?" someone yelled.

Ronan stared right at us.

"He is coming," Ronan said, barely holding in his laughter.

Day One Hundred and Ninety-Eight

2011-02-15T19:19:00.000-08:00

Day 198: 15 Feb 2011

Lots of activity today. It all started when I got into the office, nice and early at seven this morning. Until we can find somewhere for me to live, I've been staying in a visiting officer's quarters here at the Area. I'm always early.

Jason Black and another guy I don't know were in the office when I arrived. The other guy was a little older, maybe in his 50s. Big dude, though. Powerful looking. I'm pretty sure he had a glass eye.

"What's up?" I asked as I wheeled through the door.

They finally got me a decent wheelchair, by the way. One of those cool motorized things. I'm getting pretty fast on it.

"Trouble. Perimeter alarms are going crazy," Black told me.

I checked the monitors -- we had cameras covering everything around The Area. Every angle, including straight up, is displayed on a huge bank of monitors in the office. I didn't see anything odd on any of them.

"I'm not seeing anything," I said, wheeling over to my desk and bringing up the counterintrusion system. It was going insane.

"Species 4-9?" the older man asked.

Jason Black shook his head.

"They trip the airblast sensors. Those are clear."

"He's right. These are seismic readings," I said, wondering what the hell Species 4-9 was.

"Earthquake?" Cassie asked. She and Travis had walked into the room a few seconds earlier.

"Not unless it's localized entirely in a one-mile radius," I said. "And moving towards the base."

We kept watching the monitors, but the disturbance never got closer than a couple of miles. It eventually stopped and went away. Black sent some people out to investigate, but I think we're leaving it at that.

Day One Hundred and Ninety-Seven

2011-02-14T21:05:00.000-08:00

Day 197: 14 Feb 2011

So here's something interesting I didn't know I could do -- I can apparently draw really well. Really well. Jason Black asked for a map of where Cassie and I found the corpses of the Gods of the Seas and Skies, and I quickly drew him one. I did it without thinking, but the map looked almost photorealistic.

Jared saw the map, but it didn't surprise him.

"Yep. Perfect recall. You remember everything you see, and reproducing it is no problem," he said. "West Coast people had me do it a lot."

Jared and I went into Vegas for lunch today. Catching up on the past six years was. . . a bit awkward. Still a good thing. But strange nonetheless. He's not the same Jared I remember, but I'm pretty sure he could say the same of me.

Day One Hundred and Ninety-Six

2011-02-13T21:58:00.000-08:00

Day 196: 13 Feb 2011

Spent the last couple days learning the systems at Area 51, specifically surveillance and counterintrusion. I learn fast now, and remember everything I see, pretty much. Black and his doctors think it's because the slug opened up my brain. Gave me access to more of it than the average person. I don't know about all of that, but I do suddenly feel a whole lot smarter.

Anyway, looks like my job is going to be here at The Area, doing some kind of analyst thing. Your guess is as good as mine. Good news is I get to work with my brother, who should be back in the office sometime today.

Day One Hundred and Ninety-Five

2011-02-12T21:04:00.000-08:00

Day 195: 12 Feb 2011

Travis and I walked right off the plane at MacCarran into a day off. A girl could get used to this job.

Travis still didn't have a place to live, so we spent the day looking for an apartment or a house or something. Not too interesting.

We found him a place, but we both stayed at mine tonight before going back to work tomorrow.

Day One Hundred and Ninety-Four

2011-02-11T21:28:00.000-08:00

Day 194: 11 Feb 2011

Cassie suggested I stop by my apartment and grab some things. I thought about it for a moment, but. . .

What is there for me there anymore? An XBox? Some clothes? A hacked-together Dell desktop I barely used since I got a notebook? I try to picture my old apartment in my head, and it's like I'm remembering someone else's house, someplace I visited once long ago.

So, instead, we got a hotel and crashed out before our flight back to Las Vegas in the morning.

Day One Hundred and Ninety-Three

2011-02-10T20:39:00.000-08:00

Day 193: 10 Feb 2011

Landed at Wilmington Airport just after sunrise. We had a small delay at Offutt Air Force base in Nebraska. Well, the delay was actually at Eppley International, where we boarded a commercial flight. The airport was closed at four a.m.

Seems even the shadow people don't think of everything.

Anyway, we had a car waiting for us at the airport. A black Charger. I think the military buys these things in bulk. Cassie suggested I drive, as I live in town and all. I had almost forgotten that. But still, it came back to me as I drove.

We made it to Carolina Beach an hour or so after sunrise, and it was pretty cold out. Didn't bother me and Cassie, but the Navy SEAL who met us on the shore was bundled up in a parka and hat.

"Chow and Sykes?"

I nodded, and he led us to a small inflatable raft with a motor on it. A few minutes later, we were back on the fake fishing boat. The same guys were all there, having coffee on the deck, bundled in cold-weather gear.

"You look better than last week," one said.

"Yeah, feeling better too."

My hand had mostly grown back, and was almost completely functional.

"Captain says all yours. You're in charge, just tell us what you need," another of the SEALs said.

"Um. . . I'm good. Chill out. I'll be back in a bit."

Without waiting for them to respond, I dove into the water and went deep.

His corpse wasn't hard to find, and it was a corpse. More than half of his body looked like it'd been chainsawed by a group of angry Canadian loggers. And he wasn't alone down there.

The God of the Skies. All that was left of him was an exoskeleton, some jutting obsidian shards where his wings had once been. He'd died fighting -- I guessed it was his wings that shredded the God of the Seas as they both plummeted, dying, to the sea floor.

I floated there for a moment, just looking at the two dead gods, the two creatures now gone for good.

Then I went back up. Time to report my findings and go back home.

Day One Hundred and Ninety-Two

2011-02-09T21:37:00.000-08:00

Day 192: 09 Feb 2011

"Today is the first day of the rest of your life."

I have to stop eating fortune cookies at breakfast. It's strange when they're so creepily accurate, even if there are only maybe a hundred fortunes you could get. This one was right.

Day one at the new job. Cassie and I are headed from Vegas to North Carolina. Assignment -- confirm the God of the Seas is dead. Captain Black's letting us run this operation on our own, so it's me and Cassie. Kind of like it's been for. . . shit. Six months. Has it been that long?

Anyway, we're flying out of Vegas at sunset, but with the time difference, we're eight hours in the air. Won't make it to Wilmington until early tomorrow. And then. . . well, let's hope he's really dead. For good this time.

I really don't want to think about the alternative.

Day One Hundred and Ninety-One

2011-02-08T21:04:00.000-08:00

Day 191: 08 Feb 2011

Cassie and I are heading out on assignment tomorrow. For today, though. . . it's a day off. I'm confused. Haven't had one of those in as long as I can remember, and not sure what I can do with myself at Area 51 with some downtime.

Maybe I'll go for a walk?

Day One Hundred and Ninety

2011-02-07T21:43:00.000-08:00

Day 190: 7 Feb 2011

I feel clearer than I've felt in a long time, but that isn't saying a hell of a lot.

The wheelchair sucks. You'd think for a place with as much technology as this, they'd have one of those cool motorized jobs, but no. Of course not, right? I'm tooling around in the same type of crappy model they use to wheel you out of the hospital after surgery. Yes, I'm complaining. But I suppose it beats being dead.

The slug is sure dead, though. I know that much. I saw its body after they took it out of me. It was bigger than when it went in, and had tendrils stretching three feet or more in every direction. Looking at it was unpleasant. But they wheeled it out of here shortly after I woke up, no doubt to dissect the hell out of it.

Captain Black came by to see me. Told me that Travis and Cassie would be working for him now, that there was a place for me, too, because of the knowledge in my head. The slug used my brain like a hard drive, and I can remember everything about the past six years, and so much more than that. I can remember everything the slug knew, and that's a lot.

So, I figure I'll take him up on his offer. What else am I gonna do? If he gets me a better damn wheelchair, that is.

Day One Hundred and Eighty-Nine

2011-02-06T21:33:00.000-08:00

Day 189: 06 Feb 2011

Woke up in my shop's office with a raging hangover. In retrospect, going on a two-day binge wasn't bright. Apparently, resistance to alcohol was not among the superpowers that the God of the Skies' bug gives me.

Yep, he's still kicking. The bug is still with me, healthy as ever.

Briggs, though. . . I mean, the kid looks young, but goddamn can he fucking drink. I'm assuming he's who dropped me off here last night, because otherwise I have no idea how I got home.

Today was kind of cool. The air was nice and thin, and the temperature didn't go much above 70. That's good for a hangover, doesn't make you want to vomit. I find cigarettes are good, too, and I was outside smoking one of those when a black Dodge Charger pulled up in front of the shop. Two guys in Air Force dress blues stepped out and walked over to me.

"Cassie Chow?" one of them said.

"Mmyep. That's me."

"Would you mind coming with us, ma'am?"

"Long as you stop calling me 'ma'am.' I'm 26, jerk."

I got in the backseat. The two Air Force guys got in and started driving, and I noticed we were headed out of town.

"Where are we headed, guys?" I asked. Probably a question I should have come up with before getting in the car, but hey.

One of the Air Force guys turned around. He smiled.

"Ever wonder where they keep the aliens?"

Day One Hundred and Eighty-Eight

2011-02-05T20:50:00.000-08:00

Day 188: 05 Feb 2011

Day One Hundred and Eighty-Seven

2011-02-04T22:04:00.000-08:00

Day 187: 04 Feb 2011

I woke up today in a long, low white room. I was in a bed, covers up to my chest, neatly folded and white. Somewhere nearby, I heard the hiss of a respirator, but it wasn't breathing for me -- no tubes in my throat, no IV in my arm.

"Welcome back."

The voice belonged to Captain Jason Black. He was sitting in an office chair at the foot of the bed, smiling. It was the first time I'd seen him in uniform -- Air Force blues -- but he didn't have a nametape or rank insignia anywhere.

"Um. . ." was all I could say.

"Where are you? Can't tell you that, exactly. But I should inform you that you're being recorded. Or monitored. Or both. And even though the law is merely theory here, I do like to keep in the spirit," he said.

"Uh, thanks?"

"No problem, Travis. Your brother's going to make it, or so the doctors tell me," Black said, nodding to his right, my left.

I followed his gaze and found Jared in a bed about twenty feet away from mine. The respirator was his, and he was unconscious. He looked awful -- his gray skin was cracking, flaking away.

"Looks worse than he is, I assure you," Black told me, standing up. "Turns out y'all's normal human skin is under the armor-plated stuff. His top layer started falling off once they got the slug out."

"Is he --"

"Doctors say paralyzed from the sternum down, probably. The slug really tore him up. But his brainwaves are good."

"So what's next?" I asked.

"Well, we wait for your hand to grow back," he said, pulling aside my covers to reveal my arm. My hand was indeed gone, but new fingers, stubby and underformed, were sprouting from the stub. It was. . . well, disgusting, really.

"Then," Black continued, "we talk about your future."

Day One Hundred and Eighty-Six

2011-02-03T22:35:00.000-08:00

Day 186: 03 Feb 2011

Medical flight to Nellis Air Force Base with Travis and Jared tonight. Big military plane, no flight plan. When we landed, Jason Black and his guys bundled them into a waiting truck and they sped off. Briggs and I were left standing around.

"Where are they going?" I asked.

"My guess? Area 51. There are doctors out there who deal with. . . nontraditional cases. If you know what I mean," Briggs said.

"And what are we supposed to do in the meantime?"

"I know a couple of good Vegas bars."

That sounded like the best idea I'd heard all week.

Day One Hundred and Eighty-Five

2011-02-02T21:21:00.000-08:00

Day 185: 02 Feb 2011

Dreaming. Or at least I think I am. If I'm alive, I'm dreaming. If I'm dead, the afterlife fucking sucks.

I dream that I'm missing an arm. The God of the Seas yanked it off with one of his many tentacles; the blood was everywhere. The pain was nowhere near as bad as it should have been.

I dream that Jared is alive, locked inside his nearly useless body. He's slowly slipping away, the slug long dead but still leaking poison into his system. My poison. The poison I deployed to kill him.

I dream that Cassie floats above all of us, saddened and frustrated by our inability to kill the God of the Seas. It's over now. There's nothing more she can do except watch as he raises his armies and destroys the human race.

I dream of the God of the Seas. He swims happily, the damage I dealt him already fully repaired. He has beaten us, and not even broken a sweat. He's won; we've lost.

And, inexplicably, I dream of the house I grew up in -- no electricity, no indoor plumbing. That's exactly what this feels like. This dream, or this passing on into the afterlife -- sitting in a dark, ancient Cracker house in the North Florida summer heat.

Finally, I dream of blackness -- no images, no sounds. Just a black, final title card covering everything.

Day One Hundred and Eighty-Four

2011-02-01T21:25:00.000-08:00

Day 184: 01 Feb 2011

So here's what happened after the God of the Skies crashed into the ocean with the God of the Seas: nothing. Neither one of them surfaced. The water turned red, as I said before, but that was all.

No, not all. The link was suddenly broken. The constant background whisper -- what I'd come to recognize as the God of the Skies' thoughts -- ceased abruptly and entirely.

I tried to reach for Travis, but I couldn't get near the water. Black saw the difficulty I was having and turned to his buddies.

"Frogmen, you're up. Pull out our boy," he said, and two of the Navy guys instantly jumped into the sea and hauled Travis onboard.

That was 36 hours ago. And now. . . now we're just sitting in the hospital with Briggs and Jared. Travis is still unconscious. Briggs says there's nothing more he can do for Jared, and he's not getting any response out of Travis.

So, not a great day.

Day One Hundred and Eighty-Three

2011-01-31T21:43:00.000-08:00

Day 183: 31 Jan 2011

Black and his guys were on the deck within seconds.

"Everything you've got, boys!" Black yelled.

His men raised their guns -- M4s, M249s, even a rocket launcher. They opened up on the God of the Seas with the last of the obsidian rounds. We could see small chunks flying off, but the rounds weren't hitting deep enough. Even the rocket only managed to kill a tentacle.

Turned out not to be a problem, though. Before Black and his guys could even reload, the God of the Skies appeared in front of us. None of us had heard or seen him approach -- he was suddenly just there. He dove right into the exposed head of the God of the Seas. The noise was awful -- a long, loud screeching wail, and I didn't know which God it was coming from. It hurt our ears powerfully. I clapped my hands over mine, and saw Black and his guys do the same as we watched the two Gods sink below the surface.

Soon after, the water turned red with blood.

Day One Hundred and Eighty-Two

2011-01-30T21:41:00.000-08:00

Day 182: 30 Jan 2011

Travis floated to the surface today, unconscious and bleeding. Around midnight, the God of the Seas followed. He was neither unconscious nor bleeding. Just huge. And angry.

Day One Hundred and Eighty-One

2011-01-29T21:14:00.000-08:00

Day 181: 29 Jan 2011

A tentacle here, a fin there, a chunk of what looked like whale blubber every once in a while. It was gross. But chunks of the God of the Seas kept floating to the surface throughout the day and into the night. I thought Travis was winning.

That is, of course, until a human hand popped up on the surface of the water.

"What's going on down there? Any idea?" I asked.

"Nothing good," Jason Black said, shaking his head. "With all this crap floating to the surface, you'd figure your guy's doing OK. But the radar reports we're getting back. . . the God of the Seas isn't getting smaller. It's getting larger."

Day One Hundred and Eighty

2011-01-28T21:26:00.000-08:00

Day 180: 28 Jan 2011

The fight wasn't going well. And it hadn't been going well for the better part of the last three days.

Cutting was a problem, as I mentioned before. Still, I managed here and there to cut off a fin, a tentacle. No good. They grew back. I was faster, more agile, but the few times the God of the Seas hit me, I thought I would shatter. He hit like a cruise missile.

He'd already broken one of my arms -- and I didn't even know they could break. I was getting tired, and that was a surprise, too. I hadn't been tired since the slug had implanted.

It didn't look good for me at all. But then, I started to hear a familiar voice. It was Jared, and he was in my head.

"You have to get him to surface, even for a fraction of a second," he told me.

"Jared?"

Nothing. I was apparently set to receive-only. But I knew what I had to do.

I just didn't have a clue as to how to do it.

Day One Hundred and Seventy-Nine

2011-01-27T21:14:00.000-08:00

Day 179: 27 Jan 2011

Have I mentioned how much I hate the water? I didn't used to, at all. But since this bug got inside me. . . Guh. I feel like a housecat being dangled over a full bathtub out here on this crappy little boat.

I'm not the only one in a bad mood. Black and his Navy buddies are getting bored, restless, angry, or some combination of the three. Radar hits are all over the place. A huge mass will pop up, then go black. And Travis ditching out a couple days back didn't help anyone's mood.

Frustration. Futility. Probably another F-word. These were the feelings on the ship this morning, and I could tell the guys wanted to pack it in. Pull up the anchor or whatever (sue me, I'm not a nautical person), and just haul for shore, hit a bar, and get stupid hammered.

Part of me supported that plan. Part of me was worried about Travis. But that plan got put on hold just past sunrise this morning.

Because that was when the first chunk of the God of the Seas -- a severed piece of tentacle a meter long -- broke the surface.

Day One Hundred and Seventy-Eight

2011-01-26T20:28:00.000-08:00

Day 178: 26 Jan 2011

Days were passing in a fog. I was dimly aware of the medic, Briggs, checking my condition every so often. Sounds and colors filtered in and out. My eyes responded to my commands to open about half the time, but my vision was sketchy.

But then, suddenly, today -- hyper-awareness. I could see, feel, know everything. I knew what was kicking around in my bloodstream. L-3,4-dihydroxyphenylalanine, if you're wondering. I knew the room temperature was 68 degrees Fahrenheit. Briggs needed a shower.

More than that -- I could see through Travis' eyes. Knew he was underwater, just barely keeping it together against our father. I could communicate with the Gods of the Seas, Skies, Land.

And I knew Travis wasn't going to survive without help.

Day One Hundred and Seventy-Seven

2011-01-25T21:09:00.000-08:00

Day 177: 25 Jan 2011

Finding something underwater isn't easy in the best of circumstances. It's dark, cold. Radar can be fooled. And now that my slug was a vegetable, I had no link to the God of the Seas' mind.

Still, my visual memory is pretty decent. I remembered the radar and sonar readings from the not-a-fishing-boat on the surface, so I had a general direction in which to go. My eyes are better underwater than they are even on land, so I figured I'd spot something his size pretty easily.

Didn't happen. Not quickly, anyway. The thing about the Atlantic Ocean -- there's a fucking lot of it, even when you're only going a few miles. There's a whole depth factor we don't have to deal with on land.

That's not to say I didn't find him eventually, because I did. After lord knows how many hours of swimming around down there -- it was after the sun had risen and set -- I finally spotted him. He was not exactly hiding, but not exactly out there in plain sight, either, floating below one of North Carolina's barrier islands. I tried to sneak up on him, but here's the thing -- he can see in all directions at once. So that wasn't going to happen, at all.

He charged at me as soon as he saw me, and even my brain-damaged slug could still hear him howling in rage. I brought up the blade.

Blades don't work well in water. Not swords, anyway. It's a physics thing -- too much resistance for them to get up any speed. Without speed, there's almost no slicing power. I didn't know this until just the second I tried to strike at the God of the Seas. It wasn't a good way to get a physics lesson.

I realized I was in a lot of trouble.

Day One Hundred and Seventy-Six

2011-01-24T20:54:00.000-08:00

Day 176: 24 Jan 2011

Yarg. I hate the sea and everything in it.

Yeah, I watch "The Simpsons." A lot. And that quote. . . Well, it's getting more and more appropriate the longer I hang out on the deck of this damned fishing boat.

Of course, it's not. I mean, not really a fishing boat. Just looks like one. In addition to me, Jason Black, and Cassie, there are five other guys here. One introduced himself as Captain Laporte -- Army, I think. The other four didn't say much, but all of 'em are armed to the teeth. More of Black's Shadow-Person buddies.

They saw the God of the Seas floating out here a couple of days ago, motionless, adrift. Three of the guys who don't talk much -- I think they're Navy -- set up this boat in a hurry, and loaded it with guns and tech. They haven't seen the God of the Seas since, but the radar says he's close by. I guess we're just. . . I don't know. Waiting? For him to surface and start fucking shit up again?

Fuck that.

Around midnight tonight, I decided I'd had enough waiting. I was still armed. The blades the God of the Skies had given Cassie were still in my bag.

When no one was looking, I grabbed both blades. Then, I simply dove into the black Atlantic Ocean. It was time to end this, one way or another.

Day One Hundred and Seventy-Five

2011-01-23T21:29:00.000-08:00

Day 175: 23 Jan 2011

They must have me on some drugs. Physically, I feel a whole lot better. Mentally is a different story. Everything is hazy, confusing, surreal. Time doesn't seem to be moving in a straight line anymore.

I'm aware of some things. There's a kid named Briggs looking after me. We're in some kind of hospital or infirmary. We're close to the Atlantic Ocean. Travis, Cassie, and the Air Force shadow guy are off on a mission.

I'm very tired. I need sleep.

Day One Hundred and Seventy-Four

2011-01-22T21:07:00.000-08:00

Day 174: 22 Jan 2011

Portland Airport to Wilmington International Airport. Direct flight on a nearly empty commercial plane. It was just me, Jared, Cassie, Black, Eric Drake, and some young Air Force guy named Briggs.

Turns out Briggs was a medic. That was fortunate, because Jared was looking like shit. Briggs confirmed it -- Jared was poisoned. The slug was probably dead. Jared's thick, gray skin was peeling away, showing new pink skin underneath.

"Will he live?" I asked.

"Don't know," Briggs said. "Not like they cover this in paramedic training. I'll keep an eye on him."

When we landed in Wilmington, I realized I was home. It was strange-- I hadn't thought of this place as home (or,really, at all) since, I don't know, shit started going haywire out in the desert months ago. But here I was. Presumably, I still had an apartment here.

"Come on," Black said to me and Cassie. "We have to meet some people."

Day One Hundred and Seventy-Three

2011-01-21T21:17:00.000-08:00

Day 173: 21 Jan 2011

Day One Hundred and Seventy-Two

2011-01-20T21:04:00.000-08:00

Day 172: 20 Jan 2011

We surfaced off the coast of Virginia today, and my cell got a signal as we neared land. I called Cassie. She let me know she and Eric Drake had linked up, and were driving south from Vancouver back to Las Vegas. Black arranged a ride. We'll meet them in Oregon tomorrow.

Day One Hundred and Seventy-One

2011-01-19T21:17:00.000-08:00

Day 171: 19 Jan 2011

Took a couple days, but the God of the Seas lost us in the deep waters of the mid-Atlantic. He was too fast. He dove too deep. There was no way we could follow.

Black and I agree it's pointless to stay out here. He knows we're looking. This is his turf, not ours, and he's proven he can evade us eventually. We'll just have to wait until he pops his head up again.

Now we just have to get close enough to the States to surface and get a cell signal.

Day One Hundred and Seventy

2011-01-18T21:58:00.000-08:00

Day 170: 18 Jan 2011

Fear was the first to came back. Cold, directionless, inexplicable terror punched its way through the fog. For a long time -- I don't know how long, but it seemed like weeks -- that was all I was aware of. No sense of self, place, time. Only the fear.

The next sensation to appear wasn't much better: pain. My chest felt like it was full of angry killer bees. Stomach was doing its best to crawl up my esophagus, too. But at least I was aware of my body now.

Then sounds, but not sounds. They were screams, wails inside my head. The slug. He was fighting for his life, and he wasn't winning that battle. Not even close.

Then, today, I opened my eyes. I was in the back of an SUV. The voices and thick haze of cigarette smoke confirmed who had me. The Russians. One of them noticed my eyes were open, and jabbered in that incomprehensible damned language of theirs to his buddies. One of them poked me hard in the ribs, and I tried to raise my arms to stop him. It was way harder than it should have been. Slow. Weak. Apparently the slug wasn't the only one fighting for his life.

We stopped some time later. Minutes? Hours? I couldn't tell. I tried to struggle, but again -- too slow and weak. I wasn't putting up much of a fight.

The Russians kicked me to the ground. I was there on my knees, struggling to look around, when a man in a black suit walked into view. He blocked the sun from my eyes. I could make out his face -- Chinese. Something in my brain tried to recognize him, but the thoughts wouldn't connect. I knew him. I just couldn't place him.

He said something in Russian to my escorts. Money in briefcases changed hands. The Russians took off. The Chinese guy I couldn't recognize knelt down to face me, his face splitting into a wide grin.

"Hello, Mr. Jared," he purred. "You look as if you might die. Please don't do that, at least for a little while. We have much payment to extract from you, you see. And we do want our money's worth -- you weren't cheap."

Two of his men -- I didn't even see them coming -- hauled me to my feet. They hustled me to the backseat of another SUV, but one of them suddenly screamed. His yell only made it halfway out of his throat. A quick gurgling sound, and I heard him hit the ground behind me.

There were more screams. Gunfire. The SUV's windshield broke. Then I was being dragged out of the SUV, back into the light.

It was Cassie and another guy I knew I should recognize but didn't. Small guy, white, crazy hair, covered in tattoos.

"He looks like hammered shit," the white guy said, holstering a large handgun.

"Jared! You still with us?" Cassie asked.

All I could do was nod.

Day One Hundred and Sixty-Nine

2011-01-17T21:35:00.000-08:00

Day 169: 17 Jan 2011

The Russians have had Jared in the car for two days now, traveling slowly northeast from Nevada. They don't seem to be in any particular rush.

They've stopped a few times, but not at anywhere interesting -- gas stations, hotels. If we didn't know about their formerly human cargo, we might just assume it was a couple of dudes on a long-ass road trip somewhere.

So they meander north, and Eric Drake and I follow. It's almost painfully boring.

Day One Hundred and Sixty-Eight

2011-01-16T21:09:00.000-08:00

Day 168: 16 Jan 2011

Shit. He's sped up. I had no idea he could do that.

Day One Hundred and Sixty-Seven

2011-01-15T19:05:00.000-08:00

Day 167: 15 Jan 2011

Still on the chase, and not gaining any ground. Or gaining any sea, I guess. Whatever. We're stationary. Once we get to open water, though, away from the coast, Black and I have a plan that just might change the game.

Day One Hundred and Sixty-Six

2011-01-14T19:19:00.000-08:00

Day 166: 14 Jan 2011

We staked out the Russians all day yesterday and most of today. Their security was extremely tight.

Finally, late tonight, we saw them move Jared. They wrre dragging him by his arms, but he didn't put up a fight. He looked horrible.

"Come on," Drake said. "They move, we follow."

Day One Hundred and Sixty-Five

2011-01-13T20:47:00.000-08:00

Day 165: 13 Jan 2011

We caught up to the God of the Seas off the coast of Spain this morning. He's moving pretty damn fast. We're in a nuclear-powered submarine and barely keeping up. Unless he slows down, we won't be able to fire our weapons at all. I'd hate to be stuck out here, just on his tail, forever. We need a new tactic.

Day One Hundred and Sixty-Four

2011-01-12T18:57:00.000-08:00

Day 164: 12 Jan 2011

We were starting to think Eric was jerking us around. Midnight came and went, but Drake was a no-show. Finally, around 1:30, we said "Fuck it" and left.

Briggs had to check in at Nellis, so I was on my own. I headed for my apartment. When I got there, Eric Drake was sitting on my couch.

"Good," he said. "You lost the spook. Now we can talk like normal folks."

I wanted to explain that Briggs wasn't a spook, he was Air Force, but Drake didn't give me a chance.

"Ready to go?" he asked.

"Where?"

"Out North. To where the Russians have your boy."

"Lead on," I said.

Day One Hundred and Sixty-Three

2011-01-11T21:31:00.000-08:00

Day 163: 11 Jan 2011

It looked like a normal commercial flight at Louis Armstrong, but Briggs and I were the only passengers. We landed in Las Vegas at 10 p.m., and were met by an unmarked black Dodge Charger. We didn't go through Security at either airport.

"Where are we supposed to meet your guy?" Briggs asked, accepting a small gun -- an MP5 -- from the Charger's driver.

"Bellagio," I said. "Midnight."

"You heard the lady," Briggs told the driver, and the Charger burned rubber out onto the Strip.

Day One Hundred and Sixty-Two

2011-01-10T21:28:00.000-08:00

Day 162: 10 Jan 2011

The Air Force dropped me off at Pope Air Force base in North Carolina yesterday and set me up with a ride. A nice young Airman named Briggs was assigned to drive me to New Orleans. The kid was all of about 12, but he was pleasant enough. We rode in one of the military's bone-stock unmarked Dodge Chargers, making pleasant small talk on the 15-hour drive to Louisiana.

That is, until my phone rang. I checked the caller ID -- it said "Unknown," but I answered it anyway.

"Hello?"

"Cassie. Eric Drake. Remember me?"

"Sure. What's up, Eric?"

"I'm back in Vegas. Business is getting underway again here. There's talk. The Russians are saying they've seen your guy Jared around."

"How solid is your intel?"

Shit. Hanging out with Black too much. I'm starting to sound like one of these Special Operations guys.

"Pretty solid. Russians are piss-scared. West Coast guys, too."

I covered the mouthpiece and turned to Briggs.

"How fast can you get us to Las Vegas?"

"I'll make a call," Briggs told me.

Day One Hundred and Sixty-One

2011-01-09T20:45:00.000-08:00

Day 161: 09 Jan 2011

Boredom under the seas, day three. We actually had a sonar contact today, but it turned out to be nothing. Just a big Russian sub crawling along at low speed. It was out of its territory, but so were we, so we both ignored each other.

I'm beginning to think it would be faster if I just launched myself out of a torpedo tube and went looking on my own.

Day One Hundred and Sixty

2011-01-08T21:12:00.001-08:00

Day 160: 08 Jan 2011

You ever spent a couple of days on a submarine? It's pretty boring, trust me. I read a lot today, and that's it.

Day One Hundred and Fifty-Nine

2011-01-07T21:38:00.000-08:00

Day 159: 7 Jan 2011

Aboard the submarine, Black handed me a uniform and a pack with safety gear in it.

"No thanks," I said. "If this thing gets sunk, I'm in better shape than any of you."

He shrugged and mumbled something.

"So, what do we do here?" I asked. "Just hang out and wait?"

"Pretty much," Black said. "The God of the Seas, he ain't small. He can't hide for very long. The crew is all briefed, so they'll page when they see him."

They didn't. Not today, anyway.

Day One Hundred and Fifty-Eight

2011-01-06T22:58:00.000-08:00

Day 158: 06 Jan 2011:

The submarine surfaced just off the coast of Iceland today as military cleanup teams landed at the airport. I don't know who this Jason Black guy really is, but he has way too much pull to be just a Captain in the Air Force. Seriously.

Travis and Black are heading out on the submarine, while the God of the Skies is back up in the air somewhere, resting and healing. Me? No one's bothered to tell old Cassie what to do yet, so I think I'll just sleep for a couple of days. Been awake too long.

Day One Hundred and Fifty-Seven

2011-01-05T20:51:00.000-08:00

Day 157: 05 Jan 2011

Well, that worked like a charm. We managed to take out most of Jared's forces, I think. Plenty of corpses. We'll have to tally them up, but I just know Jared escaped. It's what he does.

But there isn't time. I have to keep fighting. I managed to imitate the God of the Seas to get Jared and his people to come running, but now I need to take him out for good. And I have just the weapon to do it.

A short break. . .

2011-01-05T10:05:00.003-08:00

Because this makes me giggle like a giddy little child.

That's some august company, that is.

Hey! If you haven't yet, come over and check out http://www.47echo.com, and the blog at http://47echo.wordpress.com -- the official site and blog, respectively, of my book that's releasing from Carina Press in less than two weeks.

Back to your regularly-scheduled 200 Days action tonight.

--S

Day One Hundred and Fifty-Six

2011-01-04T21:04:00.000-08:00

Day 156: 04 Jan 2011

My men swam ahead of me -- they would assist our father, and I would hang back and deal with Travis myself. Part of me -- Jared -- screamed and railed against killing him, but that part is so easy to sublimate. Travis was a dead man.

But something was wrong. Far ahead of me, I could see several of my men stop moving. They hung in the water, inactive, stationary. In my mind, I heard their lives slowly ebbing. In the dark water, some of my men collided with the dying ones, and more after that.

Poison, I realized. Get out. . . get out NOW! I screamed into my people's minds. I turned around and sped back to the shore. As I pulled myself onto the land, I began to vomit.

A few hundred of my men staggered out after me, all hitting the ground, too. I could tell many of them were near death, and the rest were quite sick, like me. More than two hundred others were dead, sinking slowly to the sea floor.

And suddenly, Travis was there, a machine gun in one hand, one of the God of the Skies' obsidian swords in the other. He smiled. Then he started shooting.

Day One Hundred and Fifty-Five

2011-01-03T21:12:00.000-08:00

Day 155: 03 Jan 2010

The attack finally came today, and it was brutal.

First, there were the helicopters, MH-60 Black Hawks. They were fast and agile, and throwing the obsidian-tipped rounds that had already killed scores of my men. We lost hundreds.

But then the helicopters moved off, and I thought we were in the clear. Our troop strength was still at more than a thousand then. But as night fell, the second wave came.

We didn't hear them coming. It was the God of the Skies, with Cassie riding upon him. He swept low through the city, his obsidian wings slicing through a hundred soldiers at a pass. My men cut and slashed at him. I'm sure he was wounded, but not enough to stop him from cleaning out at least half of my remaining men.

But that wasn't all. In fact, it wasn't even the main attack. As my men were dying by the hundreds, I heard a call from our father. A call of distress. Travis was underwater now, off the coast, attacking him.

I took the rest of my men and went in after him as midnight dawned.

Day One Hundred and Fifty-Four

2011-01-02T21:13:00.000-08:00

Day 154: 02 Jan 2011

I'm starting to worry now. My men didn't find anything at the CIA airstrip. Where the fuck are they?

Day One Hundred and Fifty-Three

2011-01-01T20:51:00.000-08:00

Day 153: 01 Jan 2011

Just heard back from my men. No sign of Travis and his people. I want to move on, but our father says no. He says we are to stop them here, kill them and their god before travelling onward and fulfilling our mission of conquest.

So I'll speed up the timetable. I've sent two of the men from the advance recon team under order of stealth to the airport to make sure the plane landed there. They should report back within hours.

Day One Hundred and Fifty-Two

2010-12-31T20:49:00.000-08:00

Day 152: 31 Dec 2010

They think they've escaped, but we are on to them. One of the men I turned to be a soldier knows things. He knows of a disused airbase 300 kilometers from here, and that must be where they are headed.

It's interesting, having access. So many minds, most of them tired and boring. But there are a few. . .

The one I spoke of earlier was an agent in the CIA. He was in New Orleans on vacation when we turned him into one of us. Another made bombs for the Russian Mob in New York City. Skills. We will use them, and use them well.

I have sent a detachment of men, two hundred strong, in several vehicles to the airstrip. They will wait a safe distance out and cut off Travis and his friends as they head back towards town.

And then, we will dominate. We will break this world and remake it in the way it should have always been -- under the God of the Seas.

Day One Hundred and Fifty-One

2010-12-30T20:43:00.000-08:00

Day 151: 30 Dec 2010

I don't think we ever actually stopped moving on the runway -- we landed, slowed down, sped up, took off. We managed to get airborne again before any of Jared's soldiers got to us, but only just-- hit one in the head with the landing gear. He tumbled along the runway towards his friends, but got back up instantly, apparently unhurt.

"All right, fuckers," Black said. "Let's see how you dig these."

He climbed into one of the AC-130's stations and brought up an image of the runway on the small TV. There was a crosshair in the center of the screen.

"How many rounds did you guys make?" he asked me.

"About five thousand," Cassie answered before I could.

"All right. I'll try to be conservative," Black said. On the screen, we saw bullets flying. I knew they were 25mm minigun rounds with obsidian tips -- I'd handmade most of them. Jared's soldiers started to fall instantly. The bullets were shredding them easily, and Black started to chuckle under his breath.

"Captain! We're taking. . . not fire, but. . . You'd better get up here," the pilot yelled from up front.

"Shit. Travis, keep on this," Black said, waving to his station.

"Uh. . . how?"

"Ever played video games?"

"Yeah."

"You'll figure it out."

And I did. It really wasn't that hard. As I settled into his seat and got a look at the screen, though, I could see what the pilot had been concerned about. I was, too. Down on the tarmac below, Jared's men had started throwing things at the plane. Luggage carts, trams, huge chunks of runway concrete. Some of them were getting pretty close.

"We're going to have to go higher and come back in the M-ATV," Black said as he came back. "This thing crashes, and we won't survive."

I nodded.

"Where's the nearest place we can set down?"

"About three hundred kliks. It'll be a hell of a drive back," Black said, sighing as we climbed away from Reykjavik.

Day One Hundred and Fifty

2010-12-29T20:54:00.000-08:00

Day 150: 29 Dec 2010

Got to Reykjavik late tonight. Even from the air, we could see that a nuclear bomb might as well have hit it. The buildings were in shambles as far as we could see, and the streets were full of bodies. Fires burned out of control everywhere.

But that, as scary as it was, wasn't the freaky part. The bit that unnerved me most of all was the stillness. Nothing moved. Nothing breathed. If it wasn't for the fires, Black, Travis, and I could have easily been looking at a painting of destruction.

"Once we're down, we'll offload the M-ATV," Black shouted over the C-130's turboprop noise. "From there, well. . .we'll see what shakes."

The wheels had barely hit the ground before we saw them, on foot, rushing the airport. There were *thousands* of them.

"Fuck! Get us back in the air, now!" Black yelled.

Day One Hundred and Forty-Nine

2010-12-28T20:55:00.000-08:00

Day 149: 28 Dec 2010

We were finishing off the weapons when Cassie's phone rang. She showed me the caller ID -- Jason Black.

"Hey, Jason. We're almost done. We followed your specifications exactly," Cassie said.

She listened briefly, and her face fell. After a few more seconds, she nodded slowly and hung up.

"Jared and his people are attacking Reykjavik," she said. "Everyone. Police, military, civilians. We have to get out there. Jason's on the way with a plane."

It was happening. They were taking over. I started throwing weapons into bags almost immediately.

"How long will it take us to get there?" I asked as I worked.

"Too long," Cassie said, shaking her head sadly. "All we can do is hope to stop them before they move on to another city."

Day One Hundred and Forty-Eight

2010-12-27T21:09:00.000-08:00

Day 148: 27 Dec 2010

I don't like to question our father's will, but his stubborn insistence on dealing with Cassie and her god -- before reclaiming this world, no less -- doesn't seem at all wise. The last time we faced his people, my soldiers were wiped out. We have more soldiers now, but they'll be harder to transport en masse.

I had a talk with him after he was done with the weapons. I suggested that rather than move the whole army South, we bring the God of the Skies to us, at the same time beginning our takeover. He agreed.

So now we're headed for the nearest population center: Reykjavik.